#smokestacktwins

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Hoodoo Apprentice

Summary: Amelia packed her things and took a train to Clarksdale Mississippi to reunite with an old friend, Annie. Annie promised she’d teach Amelia the art of Hoodoo. After a month, Smoke and Stack return with a plan to open a Juke Joint.

Warnings: SMUT

Part 5.1: This will be written in two parts because of length and detail!

They say fairies don’t feel guilt. That we glitter, giggle, and flit away from consequences like moths from flame. But I remember the way he looked at me—his mouth open in a half-smile, a question dying in his throat—before the room cracked open with light. And then silence. And smoke. And nothing.

So I ran. All the way to Mississippi, where the air is thick and memories can’t follow…

The Day The Truth Surfaced…

The earth smelled sweet before the sun rose. Not like New Orleans—no rot or river breath—but something deeper. Rooted. Green. Like a place that meant to hold you.

Amelia pressed her fingers into the dirt beside a rosemary bush and exhaled slow. A storm had passed the night before. The air was still swollen from it. Leaves glistened. A tomato vine lay broken on its side, too heavy with fruit to stay upright. She knelt to tie it gently, careful not to crush the stalk. Barefoot, in a cotton slip damp at the hem, her knees tucked in the soft dirt, she looked like part of the garden herself.

But inside?

Inside, she glowed.

Not a warmth you could see, not yet. But the kind that lived in her chest and behind her eyes. A soft spark that hadn’t gone quiet since Mound Bayou.

“I thought I was careful,” she whispered to herself, looping twine around the vine, “I didn’t mean to pull nobody in.”

But she had. Annie. Smoke. Even Stack—especially Stack.

That night in Mound Bayou had cracked her wide open.

She closed her eyes and let the memory drift up.

The heat of Smoke’s mouth on her skin.

Annie’s soft moan between her shoulder blades.

The weight of his body, the way he groaned her name like it hurt him.

The way they held her like she was a secret too sweet to speak out loud.

It hadn’t just been sex.

It was something tethered, something claimed.

And she felt it now, days later—like fire running under her ribs, warm and slow…

It started with laughter.

That warm kind that lingers in the corners of a hotel room long after the sound fades. Amelia could still hear it when she closed her eyes. Annie’s low, throaty chuckle, the kind she only let out when she was tipsy and happy. Smoke’s rare, softened smile. Her own small laugh, quiet and unsure.

They’d gone to Mound Bayou for rest. A night away from the pull of Clarksdale. Annie called it a “reset”— a little spell in motion. She wanted new perfume, new silk, a new memory to wrap around the bones of their tangled lives.

Amelia remembered stepping into Francesca’s boutique, the scent of vanilla and cedar thick in the air. She remembered Annie pulling her behind a curtain, pressing a deep red slip against her frame.

“This would melt off you,” Annie whispered.

And she’d been right.

The hotel was owned by a Black family—carved from wood and red brick, warm with lamps and iron balconies that caught the moonlight just right.

Their room was on the second floor. It had one bed.

Amelia sat on its edge, legs tucked beneath her, while Smoke stood at the window, puffing on a cigarette. The scent of bourbon and musk clung to his open shirt. Annie moved around the room with ease—fluffing pillows, humming to herself, already shedding layers of clothing like she couldn’t stand anything between her and skin.

Amelia watched them both with glittering eyes. She didn’t know where she belonged in that moment. She wanted both. Needed both.

“You alright, sugar?” Annie asked, already in her slip, curls damp from a bath.

Amelia nodded, though her heart beat too fast.

Smoke turned around. Looked at her for too long.

Then Annie crossed the room and touched her face, thumb tracing her cheek, and Amelia breathed again.

The first kiss was Annie’s.

The second was Smoke’s.

They didn’t rush her. They never had.

But once she said yes—once she leaned into Annie’s mouth and let her knees fall open beneath Smoke’s unnaturally steady hands—everything changed.

Smoke fucked her first.

His hands were rough but reverent. His mouth was pillow soft and ticklish at her collarbone, her thighs, the inside of her wrist. He kissed her like he was afraid of breaking her, but wanted to learn her shape by memory. All of this was by Annie’s command. Annie enjoyed watching. She’d spread her generous thighs and rub on her pussy while instructing Smoke on how to fuck Ameila. How to eat her. How to kiss her.

And Smoke would oblige with a dick as hard as steel.

She remembered how he tasted—like tobacco and heat.

How he held her hips in his large hands.

How his breath caught when he slid inside her.

“God damn,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers, “feel like I’m sankin’ my dick in warm honey…fuck…You feel like sin… and Sunday.”

Annie didn’t leave them—she stayed close, kissing Amelia’s mouth as Smoke moved, guiding their rhythm. Annie sat behind Amelia while Smoke fucked her missionary. He preferred to take Amelia from behind, but Annie wanted to watch the way his big dick thrust in and out of Amelia’s wet pussy.

They held her between them—her skin slick, breathless, glowing.

“That’s it, Elijah…fuck her good…give that pussy what she want…she hungry, Papa…she want some of that big dick…look how she creaming…feel good? Push her legs back some more…uh-huh…dig deeper…make her feel it…don’t be afraid to give her all ya’ inches, Elijah…she can take it…”

Smoke planted his fits against the bed and locked lips with Annie while Amelia whimpered beneath him. He bottomed out in her and groaned against Annie’s mouth. Amelia’s glossy eyes stared up at Annie’s heavy, sagging breasts and the way their tongues flicked and swirled around each other’s.

“Annie…he’s so deep…” Amelia cried out with a faint sigh.

“Fuck her like that pussy belong to you and not Elias…”

Those words hit Amelia like a freight train. It hit Smoke just the same if not harder. His dick seemed to grow wider in girth, stretching Amelia open so wide she almost cried.

A gasp ripped through her, half-moan, half-stunned cry. Her back arched instinctively, fingers clawing at the sweat-slick sheets beneath her, the bed frame groaning like it might break with them. He was too much. Too thick, too deep. She swore she felt him in her belly.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice gritty with restraint, staring down at her. His breath was hot, panting, “You too tight, sugar. Gotta breathe.”

But she couldn’t.

“Told you, Melia, you gotta take it…you took it so well last night…what happened, baby?”

He fit inside of her and Amelia clawed at his slick biceps. Annie rubbed her hair to soothe her.

And when they collapsed into one another—a knot of limbs and quiet moans, the record player whispering blues from the next room—Amelia felt something she didn’t know how to hold.

Not just pleasure.

Not even love.

But belonging.

And that terrified her more than anything.

The garden shimmered faintly around her.

Now, back in the garden days later, her fingers trembling in the dirt, Amelia could still feel his hands on her hips. Annie’s lips at her shoulder. The weight of being wanted by both—held between devotion and desire.

“They weren’t just in my bed,” she thought, “They were in my magic. I pulled them in… and now I don’t know how to let go.”

She opened her eyes, glanced down at her arm. For a moment, she could swear her skin glinted just faintly, like mica caught in sunlight.

“Not here,” she murmured, “Not now.”

She sat back on her heels, wiping her fingers on the front of her skirt. Her breath moved through her slow.

The way Annie had taught her.

The way her grandmother once whispered, too deep in the bayou, when her fae threatened to spark wild.

“Breathe like the wind don’t know you there. Breathe like fire gone to sleep.”

But the wind did know she was there.

It moved through the garden like it had questions.

And in her gut, she felt it—something shifting. A tug on the thread she’d been trying to keep loose. Not danger, not yet.

But conflict.

Longing.

A future she didn’t know how to stop.

She rose, brushed dirt from her thighs, and looked toward the house.

Smoke would be waking soon.

Annie might already be watching.

She turned her face to the sky and whispered to the morning.

“Don’t burn nothing today.”

And went inside.

The pulse under her skin changed.

It wasn’t just the usual flicker of her feu follet. It was… older. Sharper. Like a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was there.

She shut her eyes. Breathed through her teeth.

And that’s when she saw it:

Annie, turned away from her, tears in her eyes.

Smoke, standing in the rain, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers covered in blood.

Stack, kneeling before a grave she couldn’t recognize.

Herself, barefoot in the road, crying. Glowing too bright.

Her eyes snapped open. The thyme trembled in front of her.

“No,” she whispered, “Not now. Not yet.”

The visions had always come like that—in flashes. In warnings.

Her grandmother once said, “fire that sees too far burns too much.”

But this was new. Bolder. Clearer.

It wasn’t just her fae nature. Something in her was opening.

“A seer,” she breathed, lips dry, “Fae fire’s waking somethin’ else in me.”

She didn’t want it.

But it was coming anyway.

She stood slowly, pressing her hand to her belly like she could hold herself together from the inside out.

She thought of the first jar.

The one she buried deep under the floorboards in New Orleans, then packed and carried in her trunk when she fled.

The Nathaniel jar.

It had been meant to sweeten him—to draw him gently toward her.

But the love turned heavy. Sticky. Possessive.

She’d made it with honey, golden and rich. Damiana leaf, for passion. A piece of his sermon cloth, soaked in cologne. Her own fingernail, trimmed during a full moon

What she didn’t understand then—what she sees now—is that magic made in grief and hunger stays hungry.

“That jar don’t wanna die,” she said softly, “Even with him gone, it still wants…someone.”

It stirred every time she touched someone who reminded her of Nathaniel.

Smoke’s quiet control.

Stack’s commanding presence.

Even Annie’s pull.

It’s a jar that lingers. Still warm with unfinished want.

But then there’s the second jar.

This one she made weeks ago, in a fit of quiet ache, alone after a long bath.

She felt empty.

So she made a jar not to seduce, but to soothe.

Its contents were humble. Clover—for peace and soft attention. Honey—because she was lonely. Tobacco ash —to quiet the ache. A lock of her own hair—snipped while thinking about longing

She whispered into it.

“Bring me sweetness. Bring me warmth. Bring me something that don’t want to leave.”

She thought it was harmless.

But now?

Now she isn’t so sure.

Five Days Earlier…

Smoke sat back in the porch rocker, the old wood creaking beneath his weight as he watched the world unfold slow in front of him. He wore a white tank beneath a short sleeved, black button down shirt and dark denim pants with patches and distressed around the ankles. The sky was high and bright, the trees swaying gently like they had nowhere else to be. A cigarette burned between his fingers, curling smoke trailing lazily up toward the porch ceiling.

He hadn’t been able to sleep right since Mound Bayou.

Not because of guilt. Not really.

It was something else.

Need.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Amelia. The way she arched beneath him. The way her voice caught when he slid inside. The shine on her lips when she moaned his name like it meant something.

“Elijah,” she’d whispered, breathless, “You feel so good inside of me…”

He exhaled slow, smoke curling around his jaw like a noose. The memory coiled in his chest—hot, aching, alive.

Annie had given him permission. Said it was alright.

“Give her what she needs.”

But that was in the moment.

In the fire.

Now that the heat had passed, all that remained was the weight of what came next.

Because now?

He wanted her again.

And again.

And not just when Annie was around.

He ground the cigarette out on the porch rail. Lit another.

He hadn’t meant to want Amelia this way.

At first, he’d just watched her from a distance—curious, cautious.

Annie trusted her. Loved her, even. So he tried to do the same.

But the more he stayed near, the more her pull crept into him.

Not just her looks. Not just the way her hips swayed or her laugh sounded like warm sugar.

It was something…underneath.

A pull. A heat. A hum.

He didn’t know hoodoo well. Didn’t put full stock in Annie’s charms. But he knew when something wasn’t natural.

And Amelia?

She didn’t feel like any woman he’d ever touched before.

Even after talking to Stack about what’s been going on since he’d been out of town after he picked them up from the train station, he could even sense it himself.

“You still feel her, don’t you?”

Stack’s voice echoed in his memory. A question from earlier that morning.

Smoke didn’t answer.

He wasn’t the type to talk about feelings. Hell, he barely spoke if it wasn’t necessary.

But he felt it.

That getaway in Mound Bayou hadn’t satisfied anything. It had woken something.

Something he wasn’t sure he could put back to sleep.

And then there was Stack.

The way his brother looked at Amelia lately—grinning, cocky, bold.

It was different than before.

Hungrier. Deeper.

Smoke didn’t know if Stack had touched her since they got back, but he could feel it brewing.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure if he had a right to care.

“She ain’t yours”, he told himself, “She was never yours.”

But his chest said otherwise. His body still remembered her heat.

And every time she passed, humming to herself, smelling like rosewater and peaches?

His hands clenched at his sides.

He leaned back in the chair, staring out at the coming storm. Clouds rolled slow and dark. The scent of rain curled in the wind. But despite all of that, the sun still showed its strength.

“I said I wouldn’t touch her again unless Annie was there,” he murmured to himself.

His voice was low. Gravel-rough.

“So why the hell do I feel like I’m about to break that promise?”

Inside the house, he heard Amelia laugh at something Stack said.

His jaw tightened.

He stayed on the porch.

But the fire inside him?

Refused to go cold.

“Glad you bought somethin’ sexy for me to take off that body…that red slip was Annie’s idea? Bless that sister of mine…”

Through the screen door, he could see his brother crouched inside with Amelia, the two of them laughing soft and close. Stack had that rare, mischievous smile on his face—the kind that reached his eyes—and in his hand, he held a velvet green box. Amelia’s bare legs were tucked under her, one delicate foot stretched toward him, her curls spilling down her back like dark syrup.

Stack sat on his knees, towering over Amelia as she sat on her butt. Stack wore a pair of jeans with some boots and a white T-shirt that clung to his biceps like plaster. A black fedora was tipped back on his head, giving a tease of his freshly slicked hair. His eyes glittered with mischief and the dimples in his cheeks deepened with every syllable he uttered.

Amelia looked like a gypsy—a silk, patterned scarf over her wild curls, a white dress that cinched at the waist and hung from her slender shoulders, and bare feet. Her ears were adorned with little pearls that Smoke purchased from Mound Bayou. It was more so a ‘thank you’ gift for being Annie’s happiness while he was away. They looked pretty on her. Smoke’s eyes drifted to her sweaty, bronze skin before looking away.

Stack watched her with that sly smile that made her belly stir. His hands were hidden behind his back, but his posture was too relaxed, too guilty. Mischief danced in his dark eyes.

Amelia narrowed hers, “What you hidin’?”

Stack just raised a brow, didn’t answer. His voice dropped into a lazy drawl. “Why you always so nosy, huh? Can’t a man keep a little surprise to himself?”

She scooted closer, batting her lashes up at him, “You got somethin’ for me?”

“Maybe.” He grinned, the dimple in his cheek cutting deep, “But you gotta behave.”

She gasped, reaching for the hand behind his back.

Stack jerked away playfully, circling her like a wolf teasing its mate, “Uh uh. Nosy and grabby? That ain’t how this works.”

“Stack,” she giggled, giving a small stomp with her bare foot. “Now you playin’.”

Smoke couldn’t hear every word, but he caught enough.

“You’re so sneaky!”

“Damn right I am,” he said, inching in closer until their noses almost touched. “Now close your eyes for me, bébé. Be good so I can give it to you proper.”

“Stack—”

“Close your eyes, girl. C’mon now…”

Amelia eyed him suspiciously, but the soft heat in his voice made her heart flutter. She obeyed, lashes lowering, lips parting with a whisper of a smile.

Stack moved slowly, pulling the small jade-colored velvet box from behind his back. He opened it just enough to see the glint of the gold catching the warm afternoon light—a delicate anklet, fine and glimmering, with a tiny cursive A dangling at the center.

She felt him crouch low, his breath brushing over her skin. Her toes curled in anticipation.

“Alright,” he murmured, “You can look now.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Stack…”

When Stack slipped the anklet around her ankle and fastened the tiny clasp, she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Her face lit up—genuine, flushed, sweet.

Elijah didn’t look away, he just smoked, slow and thoughtful. Folks had been drawn to Amelia since she showed up. There was a softness to her, sure, but something else underneath it too. Something none of them could name. He’d felt it himself—pulling at him like a string tied to his ribs.

The gold anklet sparkled in the light, catching the soft brown of her skin like a whisper of sunlight wrapped around her ankle. The A swayed gently as he fastened the clasp with large, steady fingers, careful and reverent, his touch a kind of worship.

Stack sat back on his heels, admiring his work. “Perfect,” he said, voice rougher now, gaze climbing up her legs. “A for Amelia. My sweet girl.”

Amelia blushed, cheeks warm as peaches, her lips trembling with a smile too big to contain, “You got this in town?”

He nodded. “The Delta got more than good food, you know. Saw it sittin’ there like it knew it belonged on you.”

She dropped down, arms circling his neck in one sudden motion. “You are…the sweetest damn man I ever met, Elias Moore.”

He caught her, laughed low in his throat. “Shh. Don’t ruin my reputation. My big brother out front. Can’t have him thinkin’ I’m a softy—”

She kissed him—soft at first, grateful and tender. Then deeper, longer, lips melting into his like honey off the comb. Stack groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down the curve of her back until they found the swell of her behind.

He gripped it hard, then gave one cheek a firm squeeze, then a light slap. She squealed into his mouth, body arching against him.

“You tryna rile me up, girl?”

“I ain’t do nothin’ but kiss you…”

“And that’s all it ever takes,” He slapped again, this time slower, the sound echoing in the warm hush of Annie’s home, “You kiss me like that and I forget where I am.”

She pulled back just enough to whisper, eyes half-lidded, voice a velvet hush, “Then don’t remember. Just stay right here.”

Stack kissed her again, deeper this time, the anklet catching a ray of gold light as her legs wrapped around him and he lifted her off the floor.

The velvet box tumbled to the side—forgotten. The A on her ankle sparkled like a secret spell.

Smoke heard footsteps.

His eyes were fixed on the path.

She was coming.

Annie Moore.

She moved like molasses sliding down warm bread, slow and sure, like every step had purpose. Her hips rolled in a steady rhythm beneath a faded mustard-yellow skirt, cinched high at her waist with a knot of thick cotton. The fabric clung to the swell of her backside, catching a whisper of breeze as she walked. Her blouse was thin and ivory-colored, damp at the neck and under her full breasts with sweat, fabric pulled just a little tight where it hugged her curves. The buttons down the front strained at her chest, and one had come undone, just enough for a glimpse of the soft brown cleavage below. She had tied a rust-colored sash around her waist like a belt, making her hourglass shape impossible to ignore.

A wide straw hat shaded her face, but not enough to dim the richness of her skin—deep, sun-kissed brown with golden undertones, glowing like burnished copper beneath the summer light. Beads of sweat dotted her collarbone, and her ankles peeked out beneath her skirt as she climbed the road barefoot, dust clinging to her feet.

Smoke’s throat tightened.

His gaze slid over her like water over stone—slow, reverent, and hungry. He studied the sway of her thighs, the gentle bounce of her breasts under the blouse, the stretch of her skirt across her hips. Her body was thick, plush, womanly in all the ways that made him ache. She looked like she could hold storms and comfort and lust all at once. And she did.

She was Mississippi heat—humid, lush, heavy.

The trees lining the road bowed low with the weight of the season, their branches arching above her like they were drawn in by her gravity, bending with unseen devotion. Leaves rustled softly as if whispering her name. The light filtered through them dappled gold, painting her shoulders with moving shadows.

She saw him watching.

Even from that distance, her eyes met his, slow and knowing. She didn’t pick up her pace—no, Annie never rushed for a man. Instead, she smiled, lazy and deep, lips painted a dusky blackberry-red from some root-stained balm she mixed herself.

Smoke tipped his head and smirked, his chest lifting with something he couldn’t name. He looked like a man watching his favorite sin walk toward him.

She lifted her hand and blew him a kiss.

He caught it out the air like it was gospel.

“Come here, woman,” he said under his breath, barely a whisper, but it floated out over the porch like a spell.

She climbed the steps with grace despite the sweat, despite the heat, and the second she got close enough, he reached out and pulled her to him. The screen door rattled behind them as her body pressed against his, soft and full against his slightly taller frame.

Their mouths met—wet, deep, familiar. Not rushed. Like they’d done this a thousand times, but this time still mattered.

Smoke’s hands slid around her waist, palms dragging up the curve of her spine, down over her thick hips, gripping her like he needed reminding that she was real. His hands pressed into her skirt, fingers spreading over her ass, slow and claiming. She tasted like salt and sassafras, and her scent—clove, lemon balm, and something earthy he could never name—was all around him now.

She gasped into his mouth and leaned her forehead against his.

“You missed me that bad?” she whispered.

“I missed you like hell,” he murmured back, “Like my hands ain’t know what to do without ya’ to hold.”

She smiled against his lips. “Then hold on, baby.”

Behind them, the screen door creaked open.

“Aight now,” Stack’s voice called out, playful but loud, “I said lunch is ready, not foreplay on the porch.”

Annie pulled back, laughing, breathless and warm, “We was just gettin’ our appetite right.”

Smoke let his hand slide slow off her backside and called back, “What ya’ll make?”

“Catfish sandwiches with chow-chow and pickled onions. Collard greens on the side. Got watermelon chillin’ and sweet tea pourin’. Y’all comin’ or not?”

Annie turned to look inside. She could see Amelia blushing through the screen, one leg curled under her, ankle sparkling with a gold charm. Stack leaned in beside her, watching them both with a grin on his face.

Annie caught her breath, eyes narrowing slightly—but not out of jealousy. Just… curiosity. Something tugged at the air between them all, thick and restless.

Smoke watched her face and asked, low, “What is it?”

She shook her head slow. “Nothin’. Just…air feel different all of a sudden.”

He touched her cheek, thumb brushing her jaw, “Don’t matter. Long as you standin’ in it wit’ me.”

They walked into the house together, hand in hand, while the shadows behind them shifted like they knew something the rest hadn’t yet learned.

The air inside the house was thick with the smell of fried catfish and spices—hot oil, cornmeal, cayenne, and a hint of vinegar from the chow-chow cooling on the counter. The table in the center of the room was already halfway set with heavy plates and chipped porcelain bowls. Sunlight slanted through the open window, striping the floorboards like a ladder to something holy.

Amelia moved with grace between the kitchen and dining table, her dress now topped with a lightweight apron, curls still wild around her flushed cheeks. Stack watched her go, the sway of her hips, the way her gold anklet caught glints of light like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Smoke pulled a chair out, then went back for forks.

“You didn’t say much about Mound Bayou,” Stack said, casually, as he laid out the thick drinking glasses.

Smoke gave a faint grunt, noncommittal.

Stack raised a brow, “That bad?”

Smoke shot him a sideways glance, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Nah. That good.”

Stack paused, still holding a handful of cutlery.

The silence hung a second too long.

Smoke didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. The way he leaned back against the wall, cigarette now extinguished, eyes half-lidded like he was still dreaming of something soft, told enough of the story.

Stack gave a sharp, single nod—quiet and unreadable. But behind his calm face, something churned. Smoke knew it too. He could feel it through the air between them, that unspoken thread only twins shared. Stack wasn’t asking for conversation. He was asking whether something shifted. Whether Mound Bayou changed something between them all.

Smoke’s eyes met his brother’s again, harder now. It did, they said without words. But don’t ask me what.

He moved past him to the table, brushing Stack’s shoulder with a quiet finality.

At the counter, Annie was helping Amelia place the catfish sandwiches on a wooden tray. Amelia arranged each one with care, lining up slices of cornbread buns and pressing the pickled onions down with her fingers. She was still glowing—lit from within.

Annie leaned in close, her voice low, coaxing. “After lunch, we’ll head back to the shop, alright? We ain’t done with that drawing lesson yet.”

Amelia glanced up, her doe eyes curious. “Drawing?”

Annie smiled. “Mmhmm. Love drawing. Honey jars, sugar cones, follow-me spells. You gotta know how to build a jar that speaks without sayin’ a word. Yours pull somethin’ in already—I can feel it. But I want you to understand why. There’s spirit in the building. You feel it?”

Amelia nodded softly, but her breath caught when Annie reached to brush a stray curl from her face.

Annie’s eyes dropped to her ankle. “That’s real pretty,” she murmured, kneeling slightly, fingers ghosting just above the golden anklet.

The A charm shimmered like it had caught sunlight, though no ray touched it. For a moment, a shimmer pulsed from the charm outward—like heat rising off pavement, a soft flicker of energy, invisible to most but thick enough to make the hairs on Annie’s arms rise.

Her lips parted.

Something in her gut twisted—not fear, exactly, but an ancient kind of knowing. Like her blood remembered something her mind couldn’t name.

Annie blinked, shook it off, and stood quickly. “Mmm,” she said, clearing her throat, “I like that shine.”

Amelia, ever perceptive, felt the shift. Her smile faltered just slightly.

“I’ll bring the tea,” she said, almost too quickly, turning and slipping away from the moment.

Annie stared after her for a beat, chewing the inside of her cheek. Her eyes flicked once more to the anklet, then toward Stack—who was watching Amelia too closely—and then to Smoke, who wasn’t watching at all but felt everything.

She shook her head and carried the tray to the table.

“Let’s eat before this fish gets cold,” she said, her voice bright but slightly strained.

Amelia set down the pitcher of sweet tea and took her seat, carefully folding her hands in her lap. Stack sat across from her. Smoke poured Annie a glass of tea before pouring his own. For a moment, the only sound was the clinking of glasses and the rustle of napkins. The charm on Amelia’s ankle swayed as she crossed her legs beneath the table.

The sunlight seemed to lean in, too.

Watching. Listening. Waiting.

Something had shifted.

But no one yet had the words to speak it.

The catfish was crispy and golden, the chow-chow tangy and sweet. A bowl of collard greens sat steaming beside a plate of sliced watermelon, their red centers glistening. Smoke bit into his sandwich with slow satisfaction, licking a smear of hot sauce from his thumb. Across the table, Stack leaned back in his chair, toothpick stuck between his lips, one elbow on the table as he talked business.

“So we meet ‘em at the old cotton press, out past the levee,” Stack was saying, tearing off a piece of cornbread with thick fingers. “They’re bringin’ a truck, say they got buyers lined up from Memphis to Vicksburg. Cash in hand. All we gotta do is hand off the shine.”

Smoke nodded, chewing slow. “We takin’ the last barrels from the juke’s cellar?”

“Yeah. That batch aged good. Real smooth. Better than the stuff we been sellin’ to Johnson.”

“Alright. You loadin’ tonight?”

“Late,” Stack said, pausing to sip his tea, “You ridin’ with me?”

Smoke glanced at Amelia and Annie for half a beat, then back to Stack, “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

As his brother spoke, Smoke felt something warm press lightly against his leg.

He blinked once.

Ankles tangled under the table. He looked down—Amelia’s foot was sliding softly over his calf. Her bare toes curled against his slacks, teasing up the fabric.

Across from her, Annie was calm as a still lake, one hand resting on the table near her glass, the other… slipping low beneath the linen.

Smoke exhaled through his nose, quiet and slow.

Annie’s hand found the bulge beneath the table. Soft pressure. She stroked him through the fabric with practiced ease, fingers slow, teasing. Her touch was firm enough to make him shift slightly in his seat but subtle enough not to draw attention.

Stack kept talking, “We’ll leave the juke front lookin’ clean. Don’t want nobody sniffin’ around. Just music, drinks, same as always.”

Smoke grunted his agreement, but his jaw clenched as Annie’s hand kept moving—her nails grazing lightly, then flattening her palm against his length. Under the table, Amelia’s foot moved higher, pressing against his thigh with the same sweetness that lingered in her voice.

He gave her a sideways look.

She smiled at him—demure, unreadable.

Lord help me, he thought.

The air had thickened, gone heavy with heat and honey. Flies buzzed faintly near the window, the watermelon juice glistened like rubies on porcelain, and everyone was pretending not to feel what was very much being felt.

Finally, Stack stood up and stretched, toothpick between his teeth.

“I’m headin’ into town. Need to check on that shipment at the depot ‘fore we meet our contact later. I’ll grab the papers for the handoff.”

Smoke wiped his mouth, grateful for the excuse to breathe, “I’ll go too. We’ll ride back together and stash what’s needed.”

Annie stood as well, gathering plates, “Me and Amelia headin’ to the shop after we clean up. Got some more lessons to go over.”

Stack nodded, already heading for the door.

Smoke stepped in behind Annie just as she reached for the pitcher to rinse it. His presence settled against her back like a shadow stretching into dusk—warm, broad, unmistakable.

He leaned in, lips brushing just beneath her ear. His voice dropped low, gravel thick with hunger and heat.

“Don’t wash too hard, baby,” he whispered, letting his hand ghost along the curve of her hip, “I want that scent on you when I come back.”

Annie’s breath caught, lashes fluttering.

Smoke’s lips brushed her again, this time just behind her jaw, “You hear me?”

She didn’t speak—just nodded, slow and sharp.

He smiled against her neck, “Good. ‘Cause soon as I’m through with this run, I’m gon’ tear you up. Ain’t lettin’ you sleep tonight. You gon’ walk crooked by mornin’.”

Annie turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes—dark, hooded, steady, “You better come back ready,” she whispered.

Smoke chuckled low in his chest, kissed her temple once, and stepped away, grabbing his hat from the wall hook.

Near the doorway, Stack stood with his hat already in hand, watching Amelia. She was near the windowsill, pretending to adjust the lace curtain, but her whole body tilted slightly toward him—waiting.

He walked up slow, like the air between them was thick with something he had to wade through.

“You be good while I’m gone,” he murmured, his voice gentler than his brother’s, but no less heavy with promise.

Amelia looked up at him, soft brown eyes wide, lips parted like she had something to say—but didn’t.

Stack leaned in and pressed a single kiss to the side of her neck. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just firm and lingering—his lips dragging lightly across the pulse point beneath her ear. His hand slid to the small of her back and stayed there for a heartbeat too long.

Then he pulled back, his thumb brushing her side, “I’ll be back before sundown.”

Amelia nodded, a soft blush blooming beneath her skin.

Annie watched the exchange from the sink, lips twitching into a knowing smirk. She didn’t say a word.

“Y’all don’t be messin’ around too long.” Annie said.

Smoke met Annie’s eyes as he moved toward his hat. “Don’t I always mess around too long?” he muttered, low, with a wink.

The front door opened with a creak, then shut.

And just like that, the house exhaled.

Once both brothers had left—boots clomping down the porch steps, doors shutting behind them—the house fell into an almost too-quiet stillness.

Amelia looked up, her lips parted just slightly. Annie crossed the room slow, her hips swaying as she pulled the apron from her waist and tossed it over the chair.

“You play too much,” Annie said softly.

“So do you,” Amelia whispered.

They stood in the open doorway of the hallway, sunlight from the kitchen framing them. Annie reached out, trailing her hand down Amelia’s arm. Her fingers curled around Amelia’s wrist, thumb stroking the inside like she was feeling for a pulse.

“You got time before your lesson,” Annie said.

“I know,” Amelia breathed.

Without another word, Annie led her by the wrist toward the bedroom. The air was thick with jasmine and the ghost of frying grease. Annie closed the door behind them with a soft click.

Inside, the light was golden and low. A breeze moved the lace curtains just enough to flutter them like a breath.

Annie reached for the buttons on her blouse, slow and measured. “C’mere, sugar,” she said, voice warm and honey-thick.

Amelia stepped in close, her fingers brushing against Annie’s waist, her breath catching in her throat.

They had work to do, yes. But for now—just a little indulgence. Just a little sweetness before the spirits came calling.

For a long, loaded moment, neither of them moved.

“I felt you teasing me,” Annie murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “looking at me across the table with a bite of your lip. You want me to eat my pussy, sugar?”

“Yes….please…devour me, Annie. Ain’t been right since Mound Bayou…”

“Me neither. Got a taste for pussy juice and yours get me right every time.”

Amelia’s lips parted, but no words came.

Annie reached up and brushed a fingertip along the curve of Amelia’s jaw, following it like a map she already knew by heart. Her hand cupped the back of Amelia’s neck, warm and steady. She leaned in slowly, her breath brushing Amelia’s lips.

“Say stop,” Annie whispered, “If you need me to.”

“I won’t,” Amelia breathed, eyes already half-lidded.

And then Annie kissed her.

Soft at first—just the faintest press of lips. A tasting. A question.

Amelia leaned into it, answering.

Their mouths moved gently at first, grazing, brushing, lips molding and parting. Then deeper. Annie tilted her head and licked softly into Amelia’s mouth, her tongue teasing, coaxing.

Amelia gasped, the sound muffled between them, her hands rising to curl into Annie’s sides, bunching the soft fabric of her blouse. Her body melted forward, pressed into Annie’s with a hunger she couldn’t hide.

Their tongues tangled, slow and searching. No rush. Just sensation. A slow burn.

Amelia’s hand slipped around to Annie’s back, fingers dragging along her spine. Annie’s other hand slid low to Amelia’s hip, gripping it, guiding her closer until there was no space between them—just heat, breath, and lips that kept finding each other.

Annie pulled back slightly, just enough to speak against her lips, “You taste like summer.”

Amelia gave a breathless laugh, fingers still trembling where they touched, “You taste like somethin’ I ain’t supposed to have.”

Annie leaned in again and kissed her deeper, slower. Their breaths were shallow, shared. The kiss unfolded like a secret—satin-slow, layered with longing.

When they finally parted, Amelia’s lips were swollen, her breath unsteady, curls brushing Annie’s cheek.

Neither spoke for a moment. They didn’t have to.

Annie just took her hand and led her to the bed.

“C’mon, sugar,” she whispered, voice velvet-dark, “Let me show you what drawin’ in love really feels like.”

And beneath the quiet moan of the floorboards and the hum of summer outside, something unseen stirred in the room—a shimmer, a ripple—like magic holding its breath.

The bed sat in the center of the room, low to the floor with thick carved posts that framed it like an altar. A patchwork quilt was folded at the foot, worn and sun-faded but lovingly kept. The sheets were cream-colored and linen-soft, wrinkled slightly from the morning’s rest. A single red pillow rested where her head had been earlier, the indent of her shape still visible.

Beside the bed, a small wooden nightstand held a clay dish of jewelry—rings, copper bracelets, and silver hoops scattered like offerings. There was a well-thumbed Bible there too, tucked beside a tiny blue bottle of protection oil and a folded scrap of paper with faint handwritten sigils. A glass of water with lemon slices floated near the edge, the condensation sweating down its sides.

A cedar wardrobe stood open on one side, dresses hanging like pressed flowers—cotton, muslin, and the occasional silky piece saved for nights that needed it. A pair of leather boots lay kicked off beside a woven mat, and one of Annie’s headwraps draped over the edge of a wicker chair by the wall, where a half-finished doll made of Spanish moss and red thread waited in Annie’s lap basket.

In the far corner, a small altar sat against the wall, subtle but sacred. A photo of her mother, younger and smiling in black and white, sat framed in brass. A tiny bowl of salt. A bundle of sage tied in string. A glass of rum. And tucked near the base—something soft and wrapped in silk: a small charm bag she’d made weeks ago, before Amelia ever showed up.

The whole room breathed warmth. Lived-in. Loved-in.

It wasn’t grand or loud. It was hers—intimate, spirit-fed, and humming with the echoes of laughter, prayers, and the low, private moans of a woman who knew how to love hard and quiet.

And now, with Amelia standing before Annie naked, the light curling around her like it belonged to her, the room felt suddenly alive.

Annie sat bare before her, delicious curves revealed. She drew Ameila closer and wrapped her lips around her nipples.

“Hike a foot up, sugar…”

Amelia obeyed. Annie’s long fingers stroked her pussy lips back and forth. She was already slick between her thighs, warmth blooming there like honey left too long in the sun—thick, golden, sweet. When Annie’s fingers parted her, they came away shining, coated in the soft proof of her want. It wasn’t just arousal—it was surrender, a kind of sacred ache that pulsed with every breath Amelia took beneath her hands.

“You so sticky…I can smell you…so fuckin’ beautiful, Lia…”

Annie sucked Amelia’s arousal off of her fingers. Amelia watched, caressing her knee, nibbling on her lip. Annie’s eyes locked between Amelia’s legs. She gasped when she noticed a trail of her arousal dripping like honey from a comb. Annie scooted off of the bed and let her head recline back against the mattress.

“Sit on my mouth, sugar, please…”

Annie was desperate. Amelia climbed up and squatted over Annie’s lips while holding onto the bedpost. The floorboards creaked beneath Annie’s heavy bottom as she adjusted herself. The stroke of her lips against Amelia’s clit sent a jolt of electricity through her. Annie kissed her clit repeatedly, soft and sweet. Amelia couldn’t control the way her hips would roll along Annie’s lips when the kiss became too much.

“Annie…you kiss my pussy so good…”

Amelia allowed her full weight to settle down. That movement opened her pussy up more and her arousal dripped down Annie’s chin. Amelia arched her back and stared straight ahead at herself in Annie’s ornate mirror.

The mirror was old, its glass slightly warped, the wooden frame carved with roses and roots, stained by time and candle smoke. It leaned against the wall of Annie’s bedroom, right across from the bed, angled just enough to catch every inch of Amelia’s body.

She was glowing.

Not figuratively. Not metaphorically.

A faint, golden shimmer coiled along her collarbones, danced beneath her skin like lightning in honey. Her eyes—half-lidded, dazed with pleasure—flashed not brown, but molten, their irises threaded with soft embers. Each breath made her chest rise, and with it, tiny sparks of light pulsed at her throat and wrists, as if her veins carried starlight instead of blood.

Her lips parted on a moan—head tilting back, throat exposed—and the mirror caught it all: the sweat shining on her skin, the trembling curve of her stomach, the glistening slick between her thighs as Annie’s fingers slid deeper, Annie’s mouth pressed closer.

Annie murmured something low against her, a praise or a spell, but Amelia barely heard it.

She couldn’t stop watching herself.

She looked… not human. Not just human.

Her reflection shimmered around the edges, soft and flickering, like heat haze rising from a bayou at dusk. It was subtle, but unmistakable. Light clung to her like perfume. Her body looked too soft, too radiant, too real to be only flesh.

She wasn’t unraveling—she was becoming.

Becoming whatever she was always meant to be.

And Annie—now kneeling behind her, moaning softly between her thighs—seemed to feed it. Fuel it. Pull it to the surface. Each lick, each suck, each curl of a finger sent another flicker of light through Amelia’s reflection, like a ripple across moonlit water.

Amelia gasped, eyes locked on her glowing, god-touched self.

What am I becoming? she thought—but there was no fear in it.

Only wonder.

Only ache.

And the slow, delicious build of something ancient unfurling inside her, like fire waking in her blood.

“Annie, fuck…”

Annie’s chin dripped with Amelia’s release. The sound of Annie’s loud sucking grew louder. She didn’t want to stop. She’d only ever stop to admire her work. Amelia’s folds puffy and sensitive, slick with spit and cum. Annie would stroke it with her fingers before going in again to taste. Amelia stayed still like a good girl, arching more, spreading herself open more.

Annie dipped her head to suck her clit from another angle. Amelia felt herself clenching around nothing.

“Mhm…” Annie hummed.

Annie’s mouth moved with slow precision, her tongue circling, teasing, her fingers stroking Amelia deeper. The heat building between Amelia’s legs was unbearable—perfect—a slow burn that curled up her spine and bloomed behind her eyes. Her reflection in the mirror gleamed brighter now, as though the fire in her blood had taken root in the glass.

Her lips parted on a moan, and then—

“Sélas ti’mo lúmen… ai’triel sa lorrein…”

The words spilled out before she could stop them, half-gasped, half-sung—like smoke rising from the mouth of a flame.

Annie froze for just a moment, her breath catching against Amelia’s slick skin, “What… was that?” she whispered.

But Amelia couldn’t answer. Her head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as the sensation crested inside her. The words hadn’t come from her mouth alone—they came from deep within, from some sacred, buried root waking beneath her skin.

The mirror pulsed. Her reflection flared with golden light, the embers in her eyes glowing brighter now—alive, wild, ancient.

The words echoed softly through the room, even after her voice fell silent:

“Sélas ti’mo lúmen… ai’triel sa lorrein…”

Light of my flame… let the veil open…

Annie pressed her hand to the back of Amelia’s thigh, breathing harder now, but not just from desire.

From awe.

Amelia gripped the quilt, her whole body trembling as the climax rolled over her—but part of her, deep and sacred, had already passed through another threshold entirely.

She didn’t know the meaning of the words.

But her blood did.

“You speaking in tongues, sugar?”

Annie stood, staring down at Amelia. Amelia didn’t know what she was speaking, she was equally as stunned.

“It’s just…Annie, the way you, Stack, and Smoke eat me…it just…it…”

Annie stroked Amelia’s cheek to soothe her.

“Tell me what it does while I finish my dessert, sugar.”

Amelia gave Annie a slow nod. Annie got down on her knees and motioned for Amelia to come closer. Ameila scooted to the edge of the bed, spread her thighs, and watched Annie dive back in with a curl of her tongue.

Amelia sat back on her elbows to watch. Annie slipped a hand between her legs to touch her own pussy.

Annie spoke between licks and slurps, “You lovin’ my lips on this fat pussy?”

Amelia was choking on a moan. She couldn’t properly respond.

Amelia was soaked and leaking to the quilt. She couldn’t hear Annie’s wet folds and it made her sit up. Annie locked eyes with her while her lips lightly sucked on her clit.

“Annie…can we touch pussies?”

Annie paused.

“Please…I need it,” Amelia begged with a whiny voice.

“…Yes,” Annie says with a smile, “I’ve been wanting to do that to you…”

Annie stood, sharing a laugh with Amelia. She went to rest on her back and she hooked her heels in her hands before opening up wide and limber. Ameila stared astonishingly at Annie before clombing up to straddle her. She sat directly over Annie’s hairy pussy and when their clits touched Amelia moaned without restriction.

The feeling of their shared wetness pressed together and gliding sent shivers up Annie’s spine. It felt amazing. Slick and messy. She stared up at Amelia past her breasts that sat beneath her chin. Amelia looked like a goddess above her. Nipples erect and poking out. Hair falling into her eyes, skin glistening with sweat.

“Bump my pussy, Lia…”

Amelia braced herself on Annie’s legs. She tossed her hair back and bucked her hips like Annie commanded. The amount of wetness between them left no room for words. They locked eyes and moaned on a loop. Amelia bounced, her clit slapping into Annie’s.

“Lia, that fat pussy…oh, goodness…keep doing that…”

Annie felt her clit grow with each collision. Ameila found her groove and she would bounce then buck…bounce then buck…bounce then buck…

Annie couldn’t believe that she could feel herself cumming already. She stared up at Amelia with disbelief at how good it felt. Brows pinched together, lips parted. Amelia circled her pussy over Annie’s and Annie could feel her body seizing.

Ameila twirled her nipples and licked her lips. She looked so damn beautiful.

“Smoke gonna have a good time sinking into this pussy with how wet you are, Annie…”

Annie couldn’t believe the filth that just came from Amelia’s mouth while she brought her to climax. Annie felt her pussy pulsating against Amelia’s. It was such a powerful orgasm. While Annie tried to come down from her orgasmic high, Amelia spread her open and licked up everything that was left behind.

Annie stared down at Amelia with a look of defeat.

Amelia spoke between licks, “I think I’m ready for my lesson now, Annie.”

Amelia still felt warm between her thighs as they stepped into the shop—clean, dressed, but touched. She and Annie had to freshen up before the lesson, and though water cooled their skin and fresh cotton clung clean to their bodies, the memory of Annie’s mouth and the mirror’s glow lingered like heat under the skin.

She had slipped into a soft sage-green dress that clung in the right places, brushing just past her knees, and Annie had chosen a cotton wrap skirt and a white blouse that left her collarbones bare. They didn’t speak of what happened in the bedroom, but the way Annie’s eyes flicked over her as she unlocked the shop door, the slight curve of her smirk, said everything that needed saying.

Inside, the air was thick with rosemary, lemongrass, and mugwort. Dried bundles hung upside down from beams above, their stems bound in twine. Glass jars lined the shelves—full of roots, powders, dried flowers, little bones, and oil tinctures that caught the light. The old wood floor creaked under their bare feet. A low blues tune spun from the corner, soft and crackling, as if the record itself had a soul.

Amelia inhaled deeply. This space felt alive.

Annie moved behind the counter, pulling down a jar of honey and a bundle of cinnamon sticks. “Let’s get started on love work,” she said, laying the items on a cloth square, “Drawin’ in want. But this time, I want you to focus on how your hands move. What they say. Rootwork ain’t just what you use. It’s how you touch it.”

Amelia nodded, her fingers tingling as she reached for the honey.

But just as she uncorked the jar, the bell above the door jingled.

A woman stepped inside, soft-voiced and slow-footed.

Pearline.

She looked a little nervous, like she’d rehearsed her entrance. Slender and brown-skinned, wearing a faded yellow dress and a matching hat sitting low on her forehead. She carried herself like someone used to holding back—chin slightly tucked, shoulders not quite squared. But her eyes… her eyes were curious, wide-set, and shining.

“Miss Annie?” she said gently.

Annie turned, wiping her hands. “Mm. Pearline. You made it.”

Pearline nodded, glancing briefly at Amelia with a shy smile. “I—I wasn’t sure if it was too soon.”

“It’s right on time,” Annie said, motioning her in. “C’mon in, baby. You remember Amelia?”

“We ain’t properly met,” Pearline murmured, offering her hand. “I seen you ‘round town though. Folks say you Annie’s apprentice.”

Amelia smiled and took her hand. Pearline’s touch was warm, and there was something in her—some flicker, some faint light Amelia felt in her chest like a bell being rung softly. Recognition, but not quite knowing. A kinship unspoken.

“I’m learnin’ all I can,” Amelia said gently. “Glad to meet you, finally.”

Annie motioned toward the reading table, where the light pooled golden over a linen cloth, and a small bowl of herbs waited beside a red flannel bag.

“Now,” Annie said, “you said you wanted help for… your husband?”

Pearline flushed, fingers twisting in her skirt. “He—he don’t touch me no more. Not like he used to. And I ain’t sure if it’s me… or if somethin’ else got in the way.”

Amelia’s heart softened.

Annie nodded, all business now, the rootworker stepping forward. “Well. We gon’ see what’s what. I got somethin’ that might sweeten his tongue and stir what’s sleepin’. But first we talk, and then we make.”

She turned to Amelia with a flick of her chin. “You gon’ help me build it.”

Amelia stepped beside her, eyes on the ingredients: damiana, ginger root, licorice, rose petals.

But as Pearline spoke—softly, haltingly—Amelia felt it again. That flicker. That something in Pearline’s voice, her eyes, her blood. A faint glow behind her skin.

And deep in Amelia’s chest, her fae light stirred—curious.

She don’t even know, Amelia thought.

Not yet.

But maybe… she will.

Annie laid out the ingredients with care, every motion deliberate—rootworking wasn’t just craft. It was communication. A dance between spirit and touch.

“First,” she said to Pearline, “we work a tea to cleanse you—open your heart, clear out any grief cloudin’ your womb or your want. Then we draw what’s needed.”

Pearline nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. She sat on the stool quietly while Annie passed her a warm cup steeped with hibiscus, damiana, cinnamon, and a whisper of honey. It smelled like longing. Like heat waiting to be called back.

While Pearline drank, Annie handed Amelia the red flannel square, “You fix the conjure bag. Do it like I showed you.”

Amelia nodded and began.

A pinch of ginger root, to stir the flame.

Damiana leaves, for lust and passion.

A twist of licorice root, for control—gentle but firm.

Rose petals, for softness, for sweetness.

A drop of patchouli oil, slow and musky.

She moved with intention, each herb added like a verse of a prayer. Her fingers pinched and poured with grace, and Annie watched her, lips pursed in quiet approval.

“Now kiss it closed,” Annie said.

Amelia brought the cloth to her lips and pressed a soft kiss at the center before tying it shut with red thread. As she did, the bag warmed in her palm—just slightly, like something inside had stirred to life. Her heart skipped.

She didn’t say anything.

Annie dipped the tip of her finger into the honey jar nearby and wrote a symbol over the pouch—one Amelia didn’t recognize. Not hoodoo, exactly. Not completely. It looked older.

Pearline held out her hands.

Annie placed the bag into them gently, “Put this under y’all’s mattress. Sleep over it. And when you want to call him back into you, talk to it sweet. Like he already yours again.”

Pearline looked at them both, eyes glistening, “Thank you.”

“You ain’t alone,” Annie said, “Not never.”

After the working, Pearline lingered. She stood beside a shelf of dried herbs, running her fingers over the hanging bundles like she was trying to read something in the leaves. Amelia stepped beside her, drawn in like a moth.

“You did real good in there,” Pearline said softly, without turning, “You got a gentle hand.”

Amelia smiled, “Thank you.”

Pearline turned to face her. Their eyes met.

There it was again.

That flicker.

It wasn’t magic in the hoodoo sense. It wasn’t a spirit in the room.

It was in Pearline.

Amelia’s fae light stirred behind her ribs, curling like warm vapor. It responded without her permission, reaching—curious. Pearline had something inside her. Latent. Quiet. Maybe passed down without ever being named. Maybe watered down from a long-ago bloodline or hidden behind Sunday skirts and psalms.

But it was there.

Pearline stepped closer. Not in a flirtatious way. But open.

“Sometimes I feel things,” she said, almost whispering, “Things I don’t understand. Like… like the wind listens when I talk. Or animals follow me for no reason. Or my dreams come true in little pieces.”

Amelia’s throat tightened, “You ever told anyone that?”

Pearline shook her head, “Folks already think I’m strange. I don’t want ‘em thinkin’ worse.”

“You ain’t strange,” Amelia said softly, “You just ain’t been taught your name yet.”

Pearline blinked. “My name?”

“The one inside you,” Amelia said, placing her hand lightly over Pearline’s chest. “The one only the old blood remembers.”

Pearline stared at her for a long moment. The shop around them hummed—soft wind against glass jars, blues music fading into silence.

“Will you show me?” she asked.

Amelia nodded, “If you want it.”

And somewhere beneath them—below the floorboards, under the roots—something ancient and glowing turned over in its sleep.

Annie stood behind the counter, slowly cleaning the edge of a carved mortar with a linen cloth, but her eyes weren’t on the tools in her hands. They were on the corner of the shop where Amelia and Pearline stood, just beyond the reach of the sun filtering through the lace curtains.

The two women were close—faces turned inward, heads bowed slightly like they were speaking something soft. Private.

Annie couldn’t make out the words.

But she didn’t need to.

She watched Pearline touch one of the dried rosemary bundles, her fingers lingering, then drop her hand to her chest as if something there had just stirred awake. She watched Amelia answer her with that look—the one she wore when her spirit recognized something before her mouth could name it.

Well, Annie thought. Ain’t that something.

She didn’t feel left out. Not exactly. But there was something in the air now—like a thread had been pulled from a fabric she’d thought only she and Amelia shared.

Amelia, who had been so quiet at first. So sweet, tender. Powerful, yes—but soft with it. Careful. Annie had watched her bloom like a morning glory since the day she stepped into the shop, barefoot and smelling of river moss and honey. Now she was reaching out to someone else. And not just anyone.

Pearline.

Of course it would be Pearline.

There was something in that girl Annie had always noticed. The way animals followed her. The way her voice carried like wind through tall grass when she sang at the river. The way her eyes always looked like they were remembering something she hadn’t lived yet.

Two women made of ache and hidden light.

Kindred.

Annie narrowed her eyes slightly. Not in judgment—but in thought.

She set down the mortar and reached for the jar of frankincense resin, as if busying her hands would still her thoughts.

Pearline trustin’ her already, she mused, and they only just properly met.

But it didn’t feel wrong. In fact, it felt like something that was always meant to happen.

Amelia placed her hand gently over Pearline’s heart, and whatever she said made Pearline’s shoulders soften like they’d been carrying something too long.

Annie’s mouth twitched into the faintest smile.

“They speakin’ a language without words,” she murmured aloud, though no one heard it, “One they both remember, somewhere deep.”

Still—something in her belly curled tight. Not jealousy. Not even suspicion. Just a flicker of watchfulness. Like a door she’d thought was closed had quietly eased itself open.

She wiped her hands and called softly across the room, “Y’all alright over there?”

Both women turned at once.

Pearline gave a small smile, a little dazed but glowing.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to Annie’s, wide and unreadable.

“Mhm,” she said gently, “We just…talkin’.”

Annie nodded once, slow, “Good. ‘Cause the lesson ain’t over yet. And I want you both ready.”

Then she turned and walked into the back room, leaving the two of them in that golden hush.

But even as she moved out of sight, she could feel it: something had shifted.

Something was blooming.

And it wasn’t done yet.

The sun was streaming fuller through the windows by the time Pearline gathered her things. Her root bag was tucked beneath her arm, tied off with a strip of indigo cloth Annie had blessed with oil and a whispered prayer. She held the charm bag close to her chest, like it was more than fabric and herbs—like it was a secret only she and the spirits knew.

Her hat had lifted slightly, a soft curl slipping free at her temple. Amelia noticed it, and something about the way it curled—unruly and delicate—felt familiar. Kindred.

Pearline turned to her at the door, eyes searching.

“I know you probably busy with lessons and things, but… I’d really like to see you again.”

Amelia’s smile bloomed slow and warm, “I’d like that too.”

Pearline exhaled, a shy, breathy laugh escaping her like she hadn’t meant to be so bold, “Maybe we could talk more. I got questions, and you… you feel like someone I can talk to without feelin’ crazy.”

Amelia nodded, stepping closer, her voice a soft hush, “You ain’t crazy. You just woke up. And sometimes, when you first wake up, you need somebody to help you figure out what the dream meant.”

Pearline’s eyes welled with quiet emotion, but she held it back, smiling through it.

“Tomorrow,” Amelia offered, “why don’t you come by Annie’s garden? We’ll have a picnic out back. It’s quiet there—pretty, too. We could bring sweet tea, a little fried okra, maybe some biscuits if I don’t burn ‘em.”

Pearline beamed, “Yes. I’d like that real much.”

They exchanged a time—just after eleven, before the heat climbs too high—and Amelia gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it.

A faint clop-clop sounded outside the shop, the slow creak of buggy wheels against the dirt road. Pearline glanced back over her shoulder.

“That’s my friend, waitin’ with the horse. He gon’ take me home.”

“You need help carryin’ any of it?” Amelia asked.

Pearline shook her head, “I got it.”

Annie, who’d stepped out of the backroom just in time to catch the exchange, came forward and pressed a hand gently to Pearline’s shoulder.

“You did good today,” she said, “Now don’t go second-guessin’ it.”

Pearline nodded.

“And don’t forget,” Annie added, her voice slightly firmer now, protective, “what you feel inside—your voice, your power, your need—it ain’t wrong. Ain’t never been.”

Pearline’s eyes shimmered, “Thank you, Miss Annie. I mean that.”

Annie nodded once, “You sleep with that bag under your bed for the first three nights. Then move it to your pillow. And if that man start actin’ brand new, you send me a letter.”

Pearline laughed, then turned to Amelia.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be waitin’.”

Pearline slipped out into the sunlight, her figure framed by the doorway—slight, soft, but no longer small. She walked to the buggy with a spring in her step and a root bag full of magic nestled close.

Amelia watched her go, the door swinging shut gently behind her.

“Girl got a light in her,” Annie murmured, stepping beside her.

Amelia turned to her, voice low. “Yeah. She does.”

But inside, her fae light whispered something else.

She’s got more than that. She got something old.

And it’s waking up.

The sky had settled into a dusky violet by the time they got home, the final red threads of daylight curling low behind the trees. The scent of drying herbs still clung to Amelia’s dress, and the backs of her knees were damp with sweat. She was tired—but content. The shop had been quiet after Pearline left, and the energy between her and Annie had softened into something warm and close.

Annie pulled the screen door shut behind them and kicked off her shoes in the entryway. She moved toward the small stack of mail left tucked in the slot by the doorframe.

“Didn’t check it earlier,” she muttered more to herself than anyone.

Amelia walked into the kitchen and set her bag down with a sigh, already moving toward the icebox to fetch the leftover fried squash and red beans they hadn’t touched the day before. She hummed a little under her breath, comforted by the small ritual of reheating food in Annie’s cast iron skillet.

The house creaked with familiar sounds—floorboards groaning as they cooled, frogs beginning their chorus outside, and the soft crinkle of envelopes as Annie sifted through the mail at the table.

Then a pause.

Amelia turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder.

Annie sat still now—shoulders stiff, one envelope trembling slightly between her fingers. Her face changed—eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a firm, unreadable line.

“You alright?” Amelia asked gently, stepping closer.

Annie didn’t answer at first. Her eyes scanned the page, but Amelia could tell—she wasn’t reading it anymore. She already knew what it said. The kind of knowing that settled in your bones before your eyes caught up.

“It’s from Miss Ora Mae,” Annie said finally, folding the letter tight, voice thick but calm. “Down in Shelby. One of her girls went missin’. And a woman’s been found near the crossroads with her eyes gone.”

Amelia froze, the warmth of the skillet forgotten.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

Annie looked up at her then, face shadowed beneath the kitchen light. “I gotta go. She’s callin’ for me.”

“Tomorrow?”

Annie nodded, “First light.”

They didn’t speak much after that. Just ate quietly—red beans over rice, squash crisp at the edges, cornbread still soft in the center. Amelia wrapped a second plate in cloth and set it near the stove, leaving a pan warming for when Smoke and Stack returned from town. The brothers were handling something with the moonshine and juke joint supplies—last details before the weekend’s big opening.

Outside, the cicadas hummed.

Inside, tension curled behind Annie’s eyes like smoke in a closed room.

Smoke and Stack returned just as the crickets took up their night song, boots heavy on the porch. Stack stepped inside first, his shirt damp with sweat and the smell of whiskey clinging to his collar. His eyes landed on Amelia with a small, crooked smile.

“I’m takin’ her,” he said simply, nodding toward Amelia.

She gave Annie a quick glance, then followed Stack down the hall, her pulse already rising.

Smoke lingered, silent as ever, his gaze sweeping the kitchen before settling on Annie.

“Food’s hot,” she said softly, motioning to the waiting plate.

He sat across from her, taking his button shirt off and resting it behind him, and then he dug in. He didn’t say much—not at first. Just ate slow, chewing like he could taste something beyond the food.

Annie stared at her tea, fingers tapping absently against the cup.

“You gone quiet on me,” he said finally.

“I got a letter.”

He stopped chewing, “Bad?”

“Miss Ora Mae in Shelby. Trouble with one of her girls. Real bad signs.”

Smoke swallowed, jaw twitching.

“You think it’s them folks from that river camp?”

“I don’t know. But I gotta go see.”

“When?”

“Dawn.”

Silence.

Smoke set his fork down, leaned back slightly, “You ain’t goin’ alone.”

Annie met his eyes, “I am.”

He shook his head slowly, “Nah. Not for somethin’ like that. Not if they takin’ eyes now.”

“You got the juke openin’ this weekend. You can’t go runnin’ off.”

“Damn the openin’,” he growled, but the heat in his voice softened at the look she gave him. That stubborn calm she always wore when her mind was made up.

“Smoke,” she said gently, “This my work. Mine. They called for me, not you. You stay here. Handle what’s yours.”

He clenched his jaw, pushed the plate away.

“I don’t like it.”

“You ain’t got to,” she said, reaching for his hand, “Just trust me.”

He held her hand a long moment, callused fingers wrapping tight around hers.

Then—quietly—he nodded.

Later, beneath the open sky, Annie drew water from the hand pump and filled the iron tub on the back porch. The moon was nearly full, hanging low and round above the trees. Smoke sat in the tub, his back to her, steam rising around him in soft tendrils.

She bathed him in silence, her hands slow and reverent. She poured warm water over his broad shoulders, dragged the washcloth across the planes of his back, kissed the nape of his neck as she worked.

He said nothing at first.

Then, he spoke softly, “You come back to me.”

“I always do.”

“I mean it, Annie.”

She leaned in, pressed her lips to his ear.

“If I don’t, you’ll find me anyway. You always do.”

Water splashed soft against metal. Frogs sang in the cane grass. The moon watched from her perch in the sky, full and golden, as Annie’s hands moved slow over the man she loved.

And somewhere in the distance, the wind shifted.

Something was coming. Annie could feel it in her bones.

But for now, she just bathed her man in moonlight. And let the night hold them.

The steam curled in soft spirals from the surface of the water, carrying the scent of rosemary and bay leaf. The iron tub be on the back porch creaked faintly as Smoke shifted, his long legs stretched out, chest slick with heat. Moonlight cast him in silver—his dark skin gleaming, beard damp at the edge of his jaw.

Annie knelt behind him on a stool, bare feet braced against the wooden slats of the porch, her slip clinging damp to her thick body. She dragged a cloth over his broad shoulders, slow and deliberate, her fingers following behind to massage soap into his skin.

Smoke groaned low in his chest, head falling forward slightly.

“You always groan like that,” she murmured, lips curving at the edge, “Makes me think you been needin’ this more than you let on.”

“You already know I do,” he rumbled, voice thick as molasses, “Ain’t nothin’ like ya’ hands, woman.”

Annie reached for the tin pitcher and poured warm water over him again, watching the rivulets roll down the grooves of his back, over the scars he never spoke of, over the life he’d never explain. She set the pitcher down and leaned in close, breath warm against the nape of his neck.

Her right hand dipped lower beneath the water—beneath the surface, where heat pooled thick. She found him with ease, fingers curling gently around his length, already half-hardened from her touch alone.

Smoke exhaled, jaw tightening.

“Annie…”

She kissed behind his ear, slow and wet, and then her tongue flicked over the curve of his right ear—the sensitive part she’d discovered long ago that unraveled him like thread.

Her voice dropped, lush and low, and she began to whisper in his ear—not English now, but Yoruba, her grandmother’s tongue. The one passed to her through work and blood, never written down, only remembered through ritual and want.

“Mo ní ifẹ́ rẹ… gbogbo ara rẹ.”

I want you…all of you.

Smoke’s hand gripped the sides of the tub, knuckles pale.

“Jọ̀wọ́, jẹ́ kí n jẹ ẹ láradá…”

Let me be your healer.

She kissed just behind his jaw, her voice like silk wrapped in flame.

“Fọ gbogbo ìbànújẹ rẹ sínú omi yìí.”

Let the water take your sorrow.

Her hand stroked him under the surface, slow and steady, and she felt him growing harder with each breath. The moon above them seemed to hold its breath. The frogs, the wind, the night itself stilled.

Smoke turned his head slightly, his eyes finding hers—dark, unreadable, full of fire.

“You tryin’ to drive me outta my mind?”

Annie didn’t answer.

She simply rose from the stool and climbed into the tub with him, her full body slipping into the water, thighs parting as she straddled him, taking off her slip that clung to her curves like a second skin from sweat.

She reached between them, guiding him to her, and whispered one last thing against his mouth—

“Má ṣe bẹ̀rù ìfẹ́ mi…”

Don’t be afraid of my love.

Then she kissed him.

Hungry, deep, wet.

And the tub rocked beneath them as the water answered in waves.

The water sloshed softly around them as Annie eased down over him, her hands pressed to his slick chest, her breath catching the moment he filled her. Deep. Stretching. So familiar, and yet every time felt like the first—all heat and slow ache and a breath stolen too fast.

Smoke’s hands slid up her thighs, gripping her hips with reverence and hunger. He groaned, head falling back against the rim of the tub, the sound guttural and low.

Annie moved slow, rocking her hips in a rhythm as old as prayer. The iron creaked beneath them, moonlight bathing their glistening skin, steam rising like the breath of the spirits that bore witness.

“FUCK,” Smoke spoke sharply with a grunt, “Hot pussy…juicy…”

“Amelia warmed me up nice and good for you…”

Smoke gripped the tubs edge and stared into Annie’s eyes with smoldering passion.

“Feel this pussy, Papa…”

the curves of her breasts pressed tight against his chest as she leaned forward and whispered more Yoruba into his ear.

“Mo jẹ́ ayé rẹ… mo jẹ́ ibi ìsinmi rẹ…”

I am your world…I am your place of rest…

Her lips brushed his jaw as she moved, the words dripping from her tongue like oil over fire. Smoke’s grip tightened, and his hips bucked up into her, his rhythm becoming needful, deeper now—pulling moans from her throat she didn’t try to hide.

“Say it again,” he rasped, though he didn’t understand. “Whatever it is. Say it.”

She cupped his face in her hands, slowing her movements just enough to feel every inch of him. Her eyes searched his.

“Ìfẹ́ yìí… kò ní parí.”

This love…will not end.

She stuck her fingers in his mouth and then replaced them with her tongue as she kissed him then—full, open, wet. Their mouths met like they were starving, teeth grazing lips, tongues stroking in time with her hips. The water rocked louder now, the tin tub groaning beneath the strain of them. Her thighs trembled around him.

Smoke sat up, arms wrapping around her, mouth dragging along the curve of her shoulder, then her throat. His voice was thick, trembling.

“You feel like home, Annie. You are home.”

Annie buried her face against his neck, her arms wrapping tight around his back. Her body moved faster now, chasing the edge with him, the sound of flesh meeting water rising like thunder in their ears. His hands gripped her backside, guiding her rhythm, grounding her in his body. Water splashed, coating his face and hers.

Then—

He groaned her name, rough and breathless.

And she shattered against him.

Her cry was soft but shaking, clinging to him as her climax rolled through her like storm-wind. Her walls fluttered around him and that’s when he let go—gripping her close, his release pulsing deep inside her, their bodies locked in wet, heaving stillness.

They stayed like that for long moments. His forehead pressed to hers. Her breath still stuttering in her chest.

Then—

Smoke let out a slow breath, like something in him had finally exhaled after years of holding on.

Annie cupped his jaw again, stared into his face. “You hear me now?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“I heard everything.”

She smiled, kissed the corner of his mouth. Then leaned back, letting the warm water rise around her once more.

They bathed each other in the quiet that followed, no rush, no words needed. The moon hung high above them—witness, keeper, guardian.

They didn’t bother to dry off.

Smoke lifted her from the tub, water slicking off their skin in rivulets as he carried her into the house—her thick thighs cradled around his waist, her arms looped behind his neck. Their mouths stayed locked, breath hot and uneven, tongues tangled in kisses that never ended, only deepened.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind them.

Moonlight spilled through the open window, casting Annie’s skin in silver flame. Her body gleamed—full, bronzed, beaded with water. Her breasts heaved, nipples tight, Smoke’s eyes stuck to every curve like worship.

Smoke growled low in his throat.

“Lay back,” he said roughly, guiding her to the bed.

She obeyed, her body hitting the sheets with a soft, wet sigh.

His eyes swept over her slowly—deliberately—dragging from her hips, to her belly, to her breasts. He kissed every inch it revealed, moaning as he went.

“Look at you,” he muttered against her stomach, voice thick and reverent, “You so goddamn fine, Annie. Look at this body. Look at these hips. This ass. You know I ain’t never wanted nobody the way I want you?”

His hands roamed her like he’d forgotten everything else in the world.

“I’m gon’ take my time wit’ ya’ tonight,” he growled. “And YOU gon’ take all this dick, just like ya’ was made to.”

Annie whimpered, already arching beneath him.

Smoke grabbed her thighs, spreading them wide as he knelt between them. His mouth found her again—devouring, slow at first, then faster. She cried out, hips bucking, and he held her down with one strong arm, eating like he was trying to own her soul.

“You taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” he murmured against her folds, his beard slick with her arousal. “Keep runnin’ from me, I’ma pin you down and fuck you into the floor.”

She moaned—shaky, desperate—and reached for him.

“Elijah!”

His response was more pussy eating. He pinned Annie’s thighs back with both hands. Smoke ate her like it was his last supper. Annie watched with her breasts in each hand, cupping them like he loved. He loved it when she rolled her breasts and pointed them up so he could take in the beauty of her big areolas and perk nipples. Smoke missed wedging his big dick between them and pouring the Sweet Ember.

Sweet Ember smells like desire in summer dusk—thick, slow-burning, and sticky-sweet. Like brown sugar melting on a cast iron skillet. Like crushed clove in a warm palm. Like the smoke of a love letter burned and inhaled.

The scent lingers, curling behind the ears, at the collarbone, between thighs. It blends with the skin’s own chemistry, deepening as bodies warm. On Smoke, it sharpens—the cedar and tobacco becoming heavier, headier. On Annie, it sweetens, bringing out the molasses and vanilla, making her skin smell edible, holy.

Smoke took a breath, “You ‘bout to cum, I can taste it, baby, just let it go. Give me what the fuck I want.”

Annie was in paradise. She’d had her pussy licked and sucked twice in one day. Once by Amelia. And now her handsome husband. Her Papa Smoke.

“Papa my puss cummin’…”

The defeated tone of her voice followed by her sweet moans sent Smoke over the edge.

He climbed up, mouth crashing into hers, then flipped her onto her stomach like she weighed nothing. Smoke popped her on the rump, the sensation stinging from the lingering water against her skin.

“You want me to stop?” he rasped in her ear.

“No,” she gasped.

“Say it.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Say it.”

“Don’t stop, Papa, please don’t stop. Get in this pussy.”

“Then I’m a take this pussy.”

Smoke growled, sliding into her from behind in one slow, claiming thrust. Her back arched, hands gripping the headboard as he drove into her—deep, hard, full. His hips snapped against her ass, one hand against the side of her neck, the other hand wrapped tight in her hair.

Every thrust pushed a moan from her lips.

“You mine tonight,” he snarled, dragging his hand down her back, “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she choked out. “Yours, Elijah—”

He slammed deeper.

“Say my name again.”

“Elijah.”

“Louder.”

“Elijah!”

“Look at you—back bent, ass high, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word. You so goddamn beautiful, baby. This body? This body was made to be loved like this. You hear me?”

He grinned, kissed the side of her throat, then flipped her again—face to face now. His eyes, wild and full of dark heat, bore into hers. He kisses her shoulder, then bites gently, hand slipping beneath her belly to stroke where she’s most sensitive. He grips her hips tighter, pulling her back onto him with a grunt.

“Wanna see your face when you cum.”

He lifted her legs over his shoulders and drove in again, watching every expression as she came undone beneath him. The bed rocked beneath them, and the room was soaked in moans, skin slapping, gasps for air.

Then—

He slowed.

Pressed his forehead to hers.

Let the rhythm draw out again—long, deep, possessive strokes.

The moon poured over their skin, igniting the bronze and brown of their bodies like they’d been sculpted in flame. Their melanin shimmered beneath the silver light, sweat and want gleaming like how Sweet Ember across the curves of Annie’s stomach, the thick of her thighs, the swell of her breasts.

“I see you,” he whispered, breath ragged. “Ain’t never stopped. Ain’t never will.”

“Don’t ever stop, Papa. Don’t…don’t ever stop…shit, Elijah!”

“Didn’t I tell you?” he growls softly in her ear. “Didn’t I tell you I was gon’ do you good tonight? Mm. Got you moanin’ into the sheets like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

Annie was teary eyed and speechless. That Yoruba, Creole, and English was trapped in her throat with how good Smoke was making love to her.

“Goddamn, Annie…This pussy always know how to take me. So fuckin’ soft. So wet. You feel that?”

“Mm… Elijah… yes.” She moaned.

Her breath catches as he thrusts deep.

“I’m doin’ it good, baby?”

He drives in deeper. She gasps, body arching.

“You said you’d do me good… and you doin’ it, baby… Lord…”

“Yeah… that’s what I thought. Grippin’ me like you ain’t ready to let go….moonlight all over you. Skin shinin’ like it’s been kissed by fire. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

He grinds into her, slow and heavy. She shudders beneath him.

“You got me meltin’… legs shakin’… You got me callin’ out ya’ name…”

He begins to stroke deeper, slower—his voice becoming thick with emotion.

“You makin’ me feel like I ain’t never had no woman before. And maybe I ain’t, not like this. Not the way you take me in. Not the way you make me lose my whole goddamn mind.”

He brushes a damp curl from her forehead, then rests his forehead against hers, breath shuddering.

“I told you I was gon’ have you walkin’ funny,” he whispers, grinning slightly. “And I ain’t nowhere near done.”

Then he kisses her hard, possessive. His hand curls around her throat—not to choke, just to hold—and his next thrust sends her gasping into his mouth.

“You mine, Annie. Mine ‘til the stars fall.”

“Take me, Elijah… Make me forget where I am…Just don’t let me forget who I’m with.”

Annie cupped his face as he moved inside her, their climax building again—slow and thick and soul-deep. She cried out his name as she came, her walls clenching tight around him. He followed with a low, broken moan, emptying into her as his whole body trembled.

Their bodies were still tangled, limbs heavy and wet with sweat. The bedsheets were half-kicked to the floor. The window remained open, and the night air curled in like a lullaby, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle and damp earth.

Smoke didn’t pull out.

He stayed inside her—deep, slow-breathing, his chest rising and falling against hers. One hand cupped the back of her head, fingers slipping through the damp coils of her hair. The other held her thigh, thumb stroking slow circles against the softness of her skin.

Annie’s breath was still catching in small waves. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, her lips brushing his collarbone.

“Damn,” she whispered.

Smoke chuckled low in his throat. “That what you got to say?”

She smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s all I can say.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to slide deeper. She gasped—soft, not in pain, but from the sensation of still being filled. Still connected.

“You want me to stay like this?” he murmured.

“Mmhmm,” she nodded. “Don’t pull out yet. Not just yet.”

He kissed her forehead, slow and lingering.

“I ain’t never loved a woman like I love you,” he said, his voice raw.

Annie opened her eyes.

“You love me?”

He looked down at her. “I thought you knew.”

She swallowed thickly. “Sometimes I forget I’m allowed to have that.”

“You don’t just have it,” he said, brushing his nose along her temple. “You own it.”

They stayed wrapped together like that, his length still inside her, their bodies breathing as one, until sleep came in soft waves. The moonlight spilled over them, igniting their skin with silver, as if the heavens themselves had seen what they shared and blessed it.

They stayed locked like that, trembling in each other’s arms.

Then, slowly, he rolled to his side and pulled her with him—her back to his chest, his arms wrapped around her belly.

They lay bathed in moonlight.

Their breaths slowed.

But their hearts thundered on—tangled in sweat, salt, spirit, and something so ancient, not even the stars could name it.

And though tomorrow would pull Annie away…

Tonight, she gave him every part of herself.

And he received it like it was the last water on earth.

The house had quieted to a hush by the time Amelia settled onto her bed, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out across the patchwork quilt. The oil lamp on her bedside table cast a soft amber glow, flickering shadows across the walls and the spines of her old books.

Stack was pacing slow, lazy circles through her room like a big cat with nowhere to be. He picked things up and put them down without real purpose—opened her music box again and let it chime its soft, broken melody. Then he clicked his lighter open and shut, open and shut, as if the rhythm steadied him. His eyes kept drifting back to her—watching her legs shift under her nightgown, her bare foot flexing as she adjusted her seat.

She pretended not to notice.

Her focus remained on the leather-bound journal resting across her lap—one of her grandmother’s oldest. The pages were filled with looping cursive, herbs smudged into the margins, candle wax stuck between spells. Amelia’s finger traced a line of ink that read:

For fire without flame: mix crushed red pepper, cedar smoke, and the tears of a woman scorned. Speak her name three times, and no man shall ever rest in her arms again.

She shivered a little.

In front of her, she heard the creak of floorboards.

Then—

Tickles.

She squealed as Stack’s fingers brushed the arch of her foot, light and devilish.

“Stack!” she laughed, pulling her leg up, but he caught it.

“Mm,” he hummed, crouching at the foot of the bed, “You so serious tonight. Thought I’d be the reminder that you got skin.”

He held her foot gently in his big hand, rough thumb brushing the soft pad of her sole. Then, without warning, he kissed the top of it. Just once. Warm and unhurried.

Amelia blinked, thrown off by the tenderness of it.

Then another kiss. This time just above her ankle.

Then higher—his lips grazing the side of her calf, his breath hot against her skin.

She swallowed, her fingers sliding to mark her place in the journal, but her focus was gone now.

“What you readin’?” he asked against her leg, his voice low, molasses-thick.

She hesitated, “My grandmother’s hoodoo book. One of her oldest ones. She used to write notes in the margins when things didn’t go right.”

Stack nodded, still kissing upward. “That the same grandmother raised you?”

“Mhm.” Amelia smiled faintly. “Vivienne. She taught me how to brew healing teas before I could even write my name. I used to sit at her feet while she read Psalms over herbs like they were alive.”

Stack paused, resting his chin gently against her knee. The lamp’s glow hit her just right—golden and warm—and for a second, she looked like something caught between a dream and a flame. His eyes didn’t leave her.

“She the one who gave you your shine?”

Amelia blinked, “My shine?”

He nodded slowly, brushing his thumb along her skin. “Yeah… that light. That thing you got around you. I don’t know what to call it. But it’s there.”

She tilted her head, intrigued but cautious, “What kind of light you think I got?”

Stack’s voice dropped, thick and reverent, “It ain’t somethin’ I see. Not with my eyes, not really. It’s like…I feel it when you walk in a room. Makes the air shift. Animals go still. Time slows up a little.”

He paused again, his thumb still drawing slow circles just below her knee.

“I see it in your skin when you laugh. Hear it in your voice when you speak over tea like it’s spellwork. You shine, Amelia. You glow. And I don’t think that’s just ‘cause you fine. I think that’s somethin’ in you.”

Her breath caught. She looked away for a second, her fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the journal in her lap.

“You don’t know what you talkin’ about,” she whispered, but it lacked conviction.

Stack gave a soft chuckle, “Maybe not. But I know how I feel when I’m near you.”

She looked back at him.

“And how’s that?”

He stared at her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her soul. “Like I’m standin’ in front of a fire that don’t burn… but still changes me.”

Amelia swallowed. Her heart was thudding now, not from fear—but from being seen.

Deeply.

More deeply than she’d ever been seen before.

She lowered her hand and brushed her fingers over the edge of his jaw, voice trembling just a little.

“My grandmère…she did give me somethin’. But I don’t think even she knew what it really was.”

Stack nodded, eyes never leaving hers, “Don’t matter if she named it or not. I see it. I feel it. Every time I touch you, it’s like I’m touchin’ light,” He leaned in again and kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and soft, “Reckon I’d like to hear more ‘bout her sometime.”

Amelia reached down, her hand brushing his jaw.

“You stay the night, and I’ll tell you one of her stories. The one about the bottle tree that kept whisperin’ her name.”

Stack grinned against her skin, “You tryin’ to scare me or seduce me?”

“Ain’t it always a little of both?”

He laughed, deep in his chest, and rose from his crouch, easing himself beside her on the bed. He took the journal from her lap and closed it gently, setting it on the nightstand.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed.

Then she turned to him, let her head rest against his shoulder, her fingers finding his under the covers.

The music box wound down in the corner.

And somewhere in the house, the faint scent of cedar smoke lingered.

Amelia was curled against Stack’s chest, her head tucked under his jaw, their limbs loosely tangled under the thin sheet. His hand moved slow along her spine, trailing patterns she couldn’t name, fingers sometimes pausing to twirl one of her damp curls around his knuckle. She thought he might be drifting off.

But then he spoke, voice low and gravel-soft, barely louder than a breath.

“You ever believe in things you wasn’t supposed to talk about?”

Amelia blinked up at him, still hazy from the edge of sleep.

“Like what?”

Stack’s hand slowed, “When I was about… six? Maybe seven? Smoke and me used to sneak down by the bayou, out past where the cypress trees thicken and the ground gets soft under your feet. Real still out there. Too still sometimes.”

Amelia nodded slowly. She knew the kind of still he meant.

“One afternoon, I stayed behind after Smoke ran ahead. I was sittin’ on a rock, missin’ my momma again. It hit me sometimes… that ache. Like she was just outta reach but I couldn’t touch her.”

He paused. His fingers skimmed the curve of her waist, thumb settling lightly just beneath her breast.

“Anyway… that’s when I saw her.”

Amelia tilted her face up slightly. “Her?”

“Mmhm. A woman. Not like any I’d ever seen before. Skin gold and brown like riverstone after rain. Hair long and wild, blowin’ though there wasn’t no wind. She was dancin’, just beneath the trees. Twirlin’ like she ain’t had a care in the world. Like joy itself was pourin’ outta her feet.”

His voice dipped into something more reverent now, distant, “She… she glowed. Not like fire. Not like sunlight. She just…lit the world around her. The leaves. The water. My chest. Made everythang feel warm again, even though I’d been cryin’.”

Amelia stilled.

Stack’s jaw flexed as he remembered, “She looked right at me. Smiled, real soft. Then she waved her hand and said, ‘Everything’s gon’ be alright, baby boy.’ Just like that. Like she knew me. Like she meant it.”

He exhaled, long and slow, “I never told nobody. Not Smoke, not Annie, not my daddy. Folks would’ve laughed, said I made it up. Said I was just seein’ things.”

Amelia swallowed, “But you know it was real.”

“I do,” he said, with a conviction that surprised even her, “I ain’t never felt peace like that again. Not ‘til…”

He stopped, hesitated.

She looked up at him, “Not ‘til what?”

His hand returned to her back, stroking lower now, possessive, protective.

“Not ‘til you.”

A soft ache bloomed behind her ribs. Her throat tightened.

“Where was this? Where you saw her?”

Stack glanced toward the window, where the moonlight spilled across the floorboards like a path. “Out past Tchula Lake. Not far from a little four-way crossroads lined with willow trees. Place feelin’ wrong and right at the same time. Like magic and memory both live there.”

Amelia closed her eyes.

She knew that place. Her grandmother had once whispered that fae linger there—that the veil was thin along the water, where cypress trees root into more than just soil. She hadn’t been there since she was a girl.

“Amelia…” Stack’s voice pulled her back.

“Yeah?”

“I think maybe I saw somethin’ I wasn’t meant to. Or maybe I was meant to and just didn’t know what it meant yet.”

Her voice came out a whisper. “Maybe you still don’t.”

His fingers brushed her jaw, tipping her face up toward his.

“I ain’t never stopped thinkin’ about her,” he said, “Not once. Not ‘til now. ‘Cause now… now I think that light might’ve found me again.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t trust herself to.

Stack kissed her forehead, then pulled her tighter into his chest, tucking her beneath his arm like something precious.

“G’night, moon girl,” he murmured, half in jest, half in wonder.

And with his arm wrapped around her and her cheek pressed to his chest, Amelia finally let herself fall asleep. She leaned into him as the hush of night settled around them, her head resting on Stack’s shoulder, one hand still laced with his beneath the coverlet. Her breathing softened, deepened. Within minutes, sleep had pulled her under.

Stack stayed still.

He didn’t want to move. Not yet.

She was warm against him—soft, curved, steady. Her curls had spilled across his chest, a few strands sticking to the fine sheen of sweat that clung to them both. The oil lamp on the bedside table had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows up the walls, golden and slow.

He reached for one of her curls, coiling it gently around his finger.

There was something about her that wouldn’t leave him alone.

Not just the way she kissed, or the way she gasped his name when his fingers found the right place. Not even how sweet she smelled when she’d been working in the garden all morning, herbs clinging to her skin.

It was something else. Something in the way she watched people. The way animals didn’t flinch when she got close. The way her touch lingered in places long after she’d gone.

Stack had been with women. Slept beside a few. But he never stayed the whole night. Not unless he was too drunk to get home. He didn’t choose sleep like this. He didn’t seek it.

But tonight, with her weight curled into him and her breath fluttering against his ribs, he didn’t want to go nowhere.

He shifted carefully and reached across her to pull the journal from the nightstand—her grandmother’s book.

The leather was cracked and worn, edges curled like it had lived through fire and rain. He opened it.

Symbols. Words that looked like English but weren’t quite. Ingredients he half-recognized—calamus root, dragon’s blood, hyssop. He didn’t understand any of it, not the way Amelia did. Not in his hands.

But he wanted to.

He flipped through the pages slow, reverent, like maybe by holding it he could get closer to her. Not just her skin. But the parts she hadn’t shared yet. The deeper parts. The parts that whispered instead of moaned.

He closed the book after a while, eyes moving back to her sleeping face. Her full lips, parted just slightly. The slow rise of her chest beneath the sheet.

“I don’t know what you are,” he whispered, barely loud enough for the room to hear, “but you ain’t just a girl.”

He let that truth sit in the silence.

Then he moved.

Quietly, he unbuttoned his shirt, slipped it off his shoulders, and folded it once before setting it on the floor. His pants followed. He climbed back under the coverlet, bare-chested, the heat of Mississippi night wrapping around them both.

Amelia shifted slightly, sighing in her sleep. Her hand found his again, even in the dark.

He held it.

Let his head rest back against the pillow.

And for the second time in his life—maybe the first by choice—Elias “Stack” Moore let sleep come to him beside a woman not out of lust, but out of peace.

Out of want for something deeper than flesh.

Out of need.

And the journal on the nightstand pulsed with quiet energy, as if it, too, had taken notice.

The morning came heavy with dew and silence.

The kitchen smelled like sweet mint and cedar ash— the last remnants of the incense Annie had burned before sunrise. She stood by the stove, hair wrapped in a deep green scarf, her skirt cinched tight at the waist, boots laced high. The letter sat folded on the table, held down by a tin of red clover.

Smoke leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, bare-chested, his jeans riding low, belt slung loose.

His eyes didn’t leave her.

“You sure I shouldn’t come?” he asked, stepping closer, “I can put the juke on hold.”

Annie zipped the bag and turned to face him.

She cupped his face, thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek.

“You already came back, Elijah. You got work to do here. With your brother. With her. And you need a new shave. I’ll handle that when I get back.”

“Annie…”

She smiled softly and stood on her toes to kiss him — long, deep, her fingers sliding into his hair.

“You trust me?” she asked when they broke apart.

“Always,” he murmured.

“Then trust I’ll be fine.”

They packed the truck together.

Smoke tossed the bag in the back beside a small trunk of conjure tools wrapped in cloth and bone charms.

Annie tied her scarf tighter, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt with steady hands.

“Train leaves at eight,” she said, “We got time.”

The drive was peaceful, Annie’s hand in his, windows down. The station was quiet. Just the sound of birds and the distant rumble of the engine coming down the tracks. Steam hissed. Metal whined.

Smoke walked her to the platform in silence, one hand on the small of her back, the other clenched at his side.

When they reached the edge, she turned to face him again.

“Watch the house,” she said, “And the shop.”

“I will.”

“And watch her.”

She didn’t say Amelia’s name, but it burned in the space between them.

Smoke’s brows furrowed.

“You sure—”

Annie stepped in close. Pressed her chest to his, whispering in his ear.

“I want you to enjoy her. If she needs you… even like that… you give it. She trust you. So do I.”

Smoke exhaled—slow and sharp. Annie slid her hand down, cupping his hardness through his jeans.

“You hard already,” she teased, “Ain’t no shame in that.”

She kissed him one last time—slower, with meaning.

“I love you, Elijah Moore.”

“I love you, Annie Moore.”

She stepped onto the train with her bag and trunk, turned at the top of the steps, and waved.

“Tell my girl I’ll be back soon.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He just watched.

As the train pulled off, he reached under his shirt. Smoke pulled out the mojo bag she’d made him before he left for Chicago.

He held it to his lips.

Kissed it once.

“I got errythang,” he said under his breath, “I got our home…the shack…our baby grave…I promise.”

Smoke got back in his truck and drove home.

Smoke had only meant to close his eyes for a moment.

The bed was warm. The house too quiet. Annie’s absence settled deep in his chest like a stone in water. He stretched out, hand on his chest, boots still on.

And then…

He was somewhere else.

Stay tuned for 5.2...

@blackisy2k @thickeeparker @theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams

[mrsoulstice]

Did you know- that the car driven by the SmokeStack Twins wasn’t just a ride — it was a piece of Black history?

That fine automobile was the Patterson-Greenfield, built by C.R. Patterson & Sons — the first Black-owned car manufacturer in the United States.

Founded in the late 1800s as a horse-drawn carriage company, they made the bold leap to auto production in 1915. The Patterson-Greenfield featured a 30hp Continental engine, electric starter, cantilever springs, full-floating rear axle, and even a split windshield — straight class and craftsmanship.

And yes, credit Ryan Coogler for slipping another powerful cultural Easter egg into the mix

[teyarasheart]

I’m sorry (I’m not) but I don’t get the Remmick hype and fangirling . How could you even take your eyes off of the SmokeStackTwins to even be bothered with Remmick. He was just real regular to me 🤷🏾‍♀️

[winterfieldfrontiers]

I WANT YOU SO MUCH, IT'S RUINING MY LIFE SAMMY.

Smokestacktwin Brothers: then die.

[alucards-dinner]

Hypnotize U

smokexblackreader

Summary: While Smoke is being an entrepreneur, he sees a beautiful woman who sparks his interest. He's not much of a talker, but he's willing to do anything to get your attention.

Author's note: This is mainly Smoke's POV, and you already have a name as a reader. Overall, I hope you all enjoy it.

Every time Smoke goes to Chow's Grocery, he sees you. A woman that pays him no mind. He's never been so in love. Every woman who's tried to be with him only wants him because of his notoriety or was too scared to approach him. This makes him watch you from afar.

He can go on and on about how beautiful you are, down to the beauty of your smile, chocolate skin, and lovely curves. However, his smile fades as he realizes he is daydreaming. He has to get your attention. As he walks towards you, he is interrupted by his brother Stack.

"Listen here." Stacks tap his shoulder. "Wut you want?" Smoke cuts his eyes at Stack. "Nuthin much, just wanna make sure you are getting what we need for the juke joint tanite," Stacks says something as soon as he sees who Smoke is eyeing down.

"That's you right der? Man, she's beautiful. Why don't you talk to 'er?' He smirks at Smoke. "Nah, I wanna meet 'er at a better time than this, she's special," Smoke says as he goes back to the car.

Later on in the day, as Smoke is watching Club Juke thrive, he notices an irresistible smile from afar. It's you. Wearing a fitted flower dress that hugged your curves perfectly. Oh... he's in love. Especially the way your hair is curled. As he's admiring from afar, the music is making everyone pair with each other.

He takes the time to approach you slowly and quietly. "What's a beautiful woman like ya doin' in here?" Smoke flashes a slight smile at you. You give him a surprised look and smile. "I'm here with my friend, just to be supportive." You say shyly. "That's good to have someone you can trust. Wuts ya name?" He slightly smiles. "My name is Louvenia, and you?" You ask unaware of Smoke's status.

Smoke was taken a bit back. He's never known anyone who never knew who he was. This girl intrigued him a lot. "You've never heard of the SmokeStacktwins?" He asks. "No," you say as you sip on your drink.

"Well, let me show you." He takes his hand out. You smiled and took his hand. When you two headed to the dance floor, you felt something you've never imagined before. You felted hypnotized. The way his hands traced your curves. His rhythm was the same as yours; not too fast or slow. It's like he knew you. No man has ever made me feel this way.

When the performer finishes the song, Smoke looks you in your eyes. "Ya know, your somthin special?" He admires you up close. "Is that so?" You lean against his chest. "Yes, I can prove to you how special you are to me, if you let me?" He says, pulling you closer. "I don't know, you might not be able to hand all this," you smirk. "This sounds like a challenge," He kisses you.

Pt2????? Lemme know 😏

[devonda81]

Colorism in Sinners #sinners #smokestacktwins #michaelbjordan #ryancoogl...

Yeah, we need to have a serious nuance conversation about Colorist people in fandom spaces who hate themselves like Malcolm × say who taught you to hate yourselves Hollywood strikes again with their own version of the brown paper bag test it's time to dismantle that bigotry .

[skiplo-wave]

Twins wrestling you can decide who’s winning 😏

Bluesky exclusive cause ain’t no way I can show censored version here 😂

[mikelogan]

whoever saved @smokestacktwins i just wanna talk 👀

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

SMOKE 💨 AND STACK 💰

can we touch tongues about it

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Two

Part One

The air was thick with the smell of mud, gasoline, and tension.

Smoke crouched near the edge of the swamp, one hand resting on the rusted hood of the Ford truck stacked with crates of illegal whiskey. The wood was still damp from its time hidden beneath floorboards in a dry preacher’s shed two counties over. Now, it was headed to a juke in Helena run by a man with gold teeth and too many enemies.

Moonlight shimmered off the bayou. Mosquitoes buzzed. Fireflies gleamed. Cypress trees stood like sentinels in the dark. Stack wasn’t with him this time. He’d taken a different route—diversion. If anyone was watching, they’d trail Stack’s decoy load and leave Smoke to move the real cargo quiet and clean.

He lit a cigarette, took a slow drag, then puffed it out through his nose.

Bootlegging in the Delta wasn’t for loudmouths. It was for men who could ride the edge of blood and silence, and Smoke was the best at it. He wasn’t just muscle. He was methodical, deadly when necessary, and trusted by the wrong kinds of powerful men.

As he drove down the narrow dirt road through the trees, wheels kicking up mud and stones, he kept his pistol close. A sawed-off sat under the seat. A blade tucked behind the brake lever.

By the time he reached the turnoff toward the dock, two headlights appeared behind him.

Too close.

Too fast.

He cursed under his breath, flipped the lights off, and turned into the trees.

An ambush.

They thought they had him cornered. Had him outsmarted. Two trucks boxed him in.

But Smoke didn’t panic.

He reached for the sawed-off, climbed out the side of the cab, and disappeared into the trees like a ghost. By the time the two men stepped out with rifles and cocky grins, Smoke was behind them. He took the first one down clean—barrel to the back of the skull. No sound but the crunch of bone. The second tried to run. Smoke caught him by the collar and shoved the shotgun into his gut.

“You workin’ for Silas ‘Shine’ DuBose?” he asked low.

The man stammered, “We—we just got told to—”

BOOM!

He didn’t let him finish.

Smoke never left loose ends.

He loaded the whiskey back up, blood on his knuckles, sweat dripping from his brow.

When he pulled up to the drop site an hour later, the man with gold teeth handed him a fat envelope.

“You always deliver, young blood. Can always count on you to come through.”

Smoke lit another cigarette.

Didn’t smile.

He spoke to himself, “Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop my route but death. And even then, you better check twice.”

This job would pay for more supplies at The Blackline. It would keep him and Stack in power. And when he walked through the red door the next night, dusty, armed, and silent, he still hadn’t noticed the girl behind the curtain.

But she noticed him.

He’d just come off the job.

Boots still dirty from the swamp road. Hands scabbed from a scuffle. Chest humming with the kind of quiet that followed violence. A calm earned by taking care of unfinished business. The Blackline was warm that night. Velvet air. Laughter soft. Jazz slow. He walked in like always with a cigar in his mouth, hat low, shoulders square, dragging a heat behind him that made men straighten and women stare.

He was headed for his usual booth.

Didn’t glance around. Didn’t speak. Didn’t acknowledge a pretty eye or a pretty smile.

But then…he felt it.

A pull. A tether.

Not sharp, but deep. Low. Like a string tugging at the base of his spine.

He turned his head slow.

And saw her.

She wasn’t working.

Not like the others.

She sat behind a thin curtain, legs tucked under her, body half-shadowed by lamplight. A ribbon tied around her neck. A short slip hugging hips that didn’t move. Hair pinned up loose with curly tendrils falling around her cheeks.

She wasn’t trying to be seen, which made her impossible to look away from. Her skin glowed like candle-warmed honey, and her lips looked soft, untouched and parted slightly when their eyes locked.

Smoke’s removed his cigar from between his full lips slowly.

His whole chest tightened.

He didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Didn’t believe in fairytales or fate.

But something about the girl behind the curtain hit him like a ghost recognizing home.

Violet saw the shift in him.

The pause.

The narrowing of his gaze.

And her breath caught because she could feel it too.

Heat.

Recognition.

Danger.

Need.

Smoke took a step forward.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Just stared like she was something he couldn’t name but already missed. And in that moment, under velvet light and saxophone moans, a man like Smoke noticed a girl like Violet, and everything started to unravel.

The Blackline hummed around them with low laughter, glasses clinking, piano weeping under the weight of a blues tune. Smoke had barely stepped inside when Stack appeared at his shoulder, tugging him toward the back, behind the curtain where the light dimmed and the shadows got honest. They stood near the back hallway, a worn fan rattling overhead, paint peeling on the wall.

“Big Brotha. Job go smooth?” Stack asked, lighting a cigarette with one hand, leaning against the doorframe.

Smoke rolled his shoulders, jaw clenched, “Ran into trouble near the canal. Two sent by Shine.”

“That so?”

“Handled.”

Stack nodded, “Figures.”

A pause passed. Long enough for Smoke to glance back through the curtain and towards the floor.

Toward her.

Stack noticed the look but didn’t press it.

Instead, he exhaled smoke slow and said, “Things been movin’ here while you were gone. We took in two new girls. One’s already makin’ her money.”

“…And the other?”

Stack smirked.

“That one,” He jerked his chin toward the soft drape near the corner booth, “Name’s Violet. Gullah blood, I think. Quiet. Real sweet lookin’, but icy. Ain’t opened up to no one. Still got her flower too, far as I can tell.”

Smoke didn’t respond. Just kept staring.

Stack watched his brother’s profile. The way his jaw ticked and his mouth set.

“Ain’t initiated her yet,” Stack added casually, “But I planned to ease her in. Once she soften.”

Smoke’s voice cut in low.

“Don’t.”

Stack arched an eyebrow, “…Don’t?”

Smoke turned to him now, finally, eyes hard.

“Hold off. Not sayin’ I’m stoppin’ you. Just…don’t rush her.”

Stack leaned back slightly, measuring with a mischievous smirk, “You interested?”

Smoke looked away, back toward the drape.

“I just want a feel…she different…and I wanna know why.”

Stack grinned faintly, dragging his cigarette.

“Well, well. Ain’t often you speak first on a girl.”

Smoke didn’t flinch, “I ain’t speakin’. I’m studyin’.”

And with that, he pushed off the wall and walked back into the room, steps slow, eyes never leaving Violet.

It was late now.

That kind of late where everything turns honest. Voices lower, movements looser, touches less disguised. The scent of sweat, bourbon, tobacco, and sex wove through the air like a sensual fog caught in lace. A girl moaned in the back room. Laughter burst at the poker table. A piano crooned something low and tired in the corner.

Smoke hadn’t moved from his booth.

Hadn’t touched his drink in nearly twenty minutes.

Because she was stepping out.

Violet.

For the first time all night, she peeled back the sheer drape and moved out into view.

Not for a man.

Not for money.

Just to breathe.

But even from across the room, Smoke saw it. The way her eyes scanned carefully, the way her shoulders rounded slightly inward, like her body had learned how to make itself smaller when it needed to.

She walked slow.

Barefoot.

In a short silk slip the color of wet bone, the thin straps slipping down the curve of one shoulder, the hem hitting just above the soft part of her thighs.

Her ribbon was still tied.

Smoke’s eyes dragged down her figure—the roundness of her hips, the narrow slope of her waist, the high curve of her small, perky breasts beneath the silk.

But it wasn’t just her body.

It was how she carried it.

Careful. Quiet. Measured.

She wasn’t used to being seen.

Not like that.

And now she was. By him.

He watched the way her fingers brushed her own wrist absentmindedly, a soft nervous tic. The way her chin stayed tilted downward, even though she tried to glance up. The way she paused at the edge of the light, just short of where the men gathered, hovering between the safety of shadows and the threat of being chosen.

And still…

She felt his stare.

He saw it in the way she shifted her weight.

The way her hand lifted to her ribbon like it gave her armor.

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

His cigar burned down to the nub in the ashtray. He sat forward, just slightly, and let his eyes take her in like a man thirsting in the desert.

This girl was untouched.

This girl was hiding.

And this girl had no idea that the man in the shadows had already started claiming pieces of her just by watching.

He didn’t approach.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

And in that stretch of air between them, the room changed.

Everything else faded.

All he could hear was her breath.

All he could see was her legs.

And all he could think about was how she was already in his mouth, in his hands, in his thoughts, and she didn’t even know his name yet.

Violet felt it.

Not like the way men usually looked at her all hungry, obvious, leaning too far forward. This was different.

His gaze didn’t lurch toward her.

It crawled.

Wrapped.

Rooted itself.

And it didn’t let go.

She turned slightly, pretending to adjust her ribbon, pretending not to notice how heavy her breath had become. But her hands trembled against the silk.

Smoke Moore was watching her.

The quiet one. The twin with shadow in his shoulders and heat behind his eyes. The one who hadn’t said a single word to her since she arrived. Not even a hello.

And yet…

He was staring like he knew every secret she was trying to keep.

Her cheeks burned.

Her thighs clenched.

And her skin buzzed like it’d been read.

She couldn’t take it.

Not yet.

She turned slowly and slipped back behind the drape, her posture softer, her steps smaller, her breath caught just behind her lips.

She didn’t look back.

But Smoke…

He never stopped looking.

He waited just waited.

Gave her a minute.

Let her sit in the heat of what just passed between them—no words, no touch, no promises. Just pressure.

Then he stood.

Slowly. Like smoke rising off a fire that didn’t go out when the logs burned down. He adjusted his cuffs, reached for the bottle on the table, and poured two fingers of bourbon. But he didn’t sit again, instead he started walking. Not toward her.

Just…near.

To the bar.

Which just happened to be along the wall beside her curtained corner. His boots echoed soft on the floorboards. His coat moved around his hips like liquid shadow. And every pair of eyes in the room followed him out of instinct.

But Violet?

She felt him coming.

Like a raging storm rolling in.

Her body tensed even behind the curtain. She could feel the way the air changed. How the room shifted around his presence. Smoke stood at the bar, one hand resting on the wood, eyes on the row of bottles like he was deciding what to drink.

But in reality? He was listening to her breath.

Sensing the tremble behind the curtain. Reading the way her silence now said more than any voice in that house. He didn’t speak to her, didn’t look at her. But she could feel the back of his coat inches from the silk veil.

And Smoke?

He was close enough now to smell her skin.

And he didn’t even need to touch.

The music in The Blackline rolled slow and dirty like honeyed drag through a throat full of smoke. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone moaned behind a closed door. A card game roared to life across the floor.

But Violet couldn’t hear any of it.

All she could hear was his boots near the edge of her world. Smoke was just outside the curtain now, standing at the bar, pouring bourbon like he hadn’t just shaken her to her core. His presence radiated like heat through floorboards, like thunder behind silence.

She sat on the edge of the velvet cushion, hands clasped, her chest rising and falling too fast.

Then…

She leaned forward.

Just slightly.

And slipped two fingers into the edge of the drape, parting it a whisper.

She peeked.

He was there.

So close.

Back turned, coat draped over broad shoulders, shirt tight across a back and chest shaped by violence and long days on the road. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins thick across the backs of his hands. His knuckles were scarred. His boots scuffed. His holster dark with wear.

He didn’t fidget.

Didn’t glance around.

He just stood there like the world wasn’t allowed to move without him giving it permission. And yet, there was no tension in him. No vanity.

Only gravity.

A presence that said…

I’ve done worse than you think.

And better than I deserved.

And I’m still standing.

Violet’s lips parted.

Her thighs pressed together.

She didn’t understand it, this pulse that bloomed between her legs just from looking. But she couldn’t stop. She studied the line of his jaw, the angle of his nose, the glint of sweat on the back of his neck. And for a moment, he moved.

Not toward her.

Not away.

Just shifted.

And somehow, she swore he knew. He knew she was watching. And he was letting her.

Violet let the curtain fall.

Her heart was still racing. Her breath shaky.

She tried to sit still again, tucking her legs beneath her and staring at the candle flickering on the table like it might hold the answer to why she suddenly felt like her skin didn’t fit right anymore.

She could still feel him out there.

That man.

That stare.

That heat like a hand around her throat.

The drape shifted again behind her.

And then a voice slid in, low, slow, honey-slick and sharp.

“Mm. So that’s who you watchin’.”

Violet flinched.

Cordelia stepped into the little curtained corner like smoke curling under a door. She smelled like jasmine and rum. Her silk robe was open at the thigh, and her eyes gleamed like a cat that already caught the mouse. She sat without asking, legs crossed, one arm draped over the back of the chair.

Violet tried to say nothing.

But Cordelia smirked.

“Girl, you act like I ain’t seen the way your breath left your body the second he walked by.”

“I wasn’t—” Violet started.

“Don’t lie to me now,” Cordelia said, laughing soft, “You look like somebody plucked your ribbon loose just by lookin’ at you.”

Violet dropped her gaze, cheeks burning.

Cordelia leaned in close.

“Let me tell you somethin’, baby…you ain’t the first girl to sit behind this curtain and melt for a man like Smoke Moore.”

Violet blinked, “what’s his real name?”

Cordelia smiled wider, “mm. Now she wanna know names,” She tapped her nail against the glass on the table, “His name’s Elijah, but we all call him Smoke. The quiet twin. The one who don’t look at much. But when he do look,” she snapped her fingers, “you best believe he seein’ every inch of you.”

Violet shifted in her seat, flustered.

Cordelia leaned closer, voice softer now, “He done killed men with those hands, baby. And still…he touches a woman like she was made of glass. You think a man like that ain’t dangerous?”

Violet swallowed then licked her lips, “I ain’t never had nobody look at me like that.”

Cordelia nodded slowly, “No, you haven’t. And you ain’t ready for what it means when he don’t just look…But comes back.”

She stood then, smoothed her robe, and before slipping out, gave Violet one last glance.

“You better start askin’ yourself one thing, baby girl…Do you wanna be safe? Or do you wanna be seen?”

And with that, Cordelia disappeared into the curtain fold, heels clicking softly.

The curtain was still swaying when Violet sat forward.

Cordelia’s words throbbed in her chest.

Do you wanna be safe?

Or do you wanna be seen?

She didn’t know the answer. But her body moved like it did.She uncrossed her legs slowly and adjusted the tie of her ribbon with quiet grace. Instead of retreating, she shifted closer to the edge of the booth, to the space where the curtain parted just enough to let the world in. And for the first time…She let herself be looked at.

Smoke was back at the bar.

Same place. Same stance.

Only now he turned.

Not fully.

Just enough to lean against the bar with his elbow propped, bourbon in one hand, and his gaze fixed on the sliver of light where Violet now sat, half-shadowed, half-glowing, waiting. He could see her now. Not all of her just the outline. A bare thigh, one strap slipped from her shoulder, the delicate slope of her neck. Her curls had loosened slightly. Her lips were parted, soft and unsure.

But her eyes?

They were different.

Still shy. Still wide.

But no longer retreating.

Now she was inviting.

Smoke’s throat tightened. His grip on the glass flexed. She was sitting still but everything about her screamed movement. The curve of her hip pressed into velvet. The dip of her collarbone catching firelight. Her chest rising in a soft, unsure rhythm.

She hadn’t spoken.

Hadn’t smiled.

Hadn’t even glanced directly at him.

But she was waiting.

For him.

And he felt it like a thread wrapped around his ribs. She wanted to be seen now. Not by everyone.

Just him.

He raised his glass slowly and took a sip, didn’t look away.

And Violet?

She stayed right where she was, trembling, blooming, letting herself be devoured.

No more hiding.

Just heat.

The curtain fell closed again.

She hadn’t moved but everything inside her was shifting. Violet sat still in the quiet hush of the velvet nook, hands resting in her lap, heart drumming like a hummingbird’s wings against her ribs.

She could still feel it.

Him and that gaze and that weight. The pull of it like silk wrapped around her waist, tightening with every glance. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just nerves. It was something older, something deeper. Something unnamed. Her thighs were slick and tense and her lips dry. Her mouth unable to remember how to form a word. She reached for the edge of the table for something to ground her and exhaled slowly, as if trying to breathe the heat out of her blood.

Why’d he look at her like that?

Like she was the last quiet in a room full of noise. Like he could taste her without touching. Like he’d already chosen her and she ain’t even spoke his name.

She closed her eyes.

Violet tried to remember how it felt to be invisible. Tried to remind herself that she wasn’t made for a man like him.

Men like that didn’t look at girls like her.

But he did.

And that look made her body buzz like the string of a plucked violin—tight, thin, and trembling.

She touched the ribbon at her throat, fingers grazing the knot.

Her voice caught.

Her skin burned.

And somewhere behind the curtain, she could still hear the faint clink of a glass. The sound of a man drinking slow, like he had time. Like he had already decided.

What if he speaks to me?

The question rang in her chest like a bell.

And still…she didn’t run.

She smoothed her thighs. Straightened her spine.

Let herself bloom in the dark.

She wasn’t ready.

But she wasn’t hiding anymore.

Violet waited until the noise swelled just enough to carry her movement. A crescendo in the music. A burst of laughter near the bar. The groan of wood shifting beneath dancers’ feet. That’s when Violet rose slow and smooth. A breath exhaled into motion.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t push back the curtain with drama.

She let it part like the petals of a flower at dusk—quiet and deliberate. And when she stepped out, the silk of her slip whispered against her skin, catching the light in places that made every inch of her look soft and secret.

The room was darker now.

Oil lamps turned low. Smoke coiled above heads like lazy ghosts. The scent of musk, pipe tobacco, sweat, and sweet perfume hung thick.

And there she was.

Barefoot. Ribbon still knotted at her throat. Shoulders bare. Back straight. Face calm but burning.

Smoke saw her immediately.

He was still at the bar, leaning with his drink in hand, but his whole body shifted like gravity itself had tilted in her direction. He didn’t move but his gaze locked on her with the kind of stillness that carried weight like he was memorizing her. Violet walked slowly along the edge of the floor, trailing one hand along the wall, not toward anyone in particular, just out into the open. Her hips swayed gently with the rhythm of the piano. Her thighs brushed, and the hem of her dress floated just above the softest part of them.

She passed two men.

One looked.

One said something.

She didn’t hear it.

Because she could feel him behind her.

That gaze. Heavy as a hand.

She turned ever so slightly and glanced over her shoulder.

Her eyes met Smoke’s.

And there it was again. That low-burning tension between them, thick as sticky glide. A pull. A knowing. And this time, she didn’t look away. Her body stayed open, her lips stayed parted. Violet let him look. Let him feel the weight of the woman she was becoming—the woman who was no longer hiding.

Violet walked past the bar.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t sway too much. She held her chin up just enough to look composed, her fingertips grazing the edge of the wall, the slip of her dress brushing the inside of her thighs. She was trying—trying to own her steps, to hold the quiet fire Cordelia lit in her chest. Her breath still fluttered, but she kept moving.

Behind her…she heard nothing.

But she could feel it.

That weight.

That energy like coiled thunder.

She didn’t have to look back to know he was moving.

Smoke Moore.

He was following.

Not loud.

Not rushed.

Just present. Like the slow drag of stormclouds across a summer sky—you don’t hear it right away, but you know the air’s about to change. She turned the corner near the back hallway, just beyond the glow of the main room. A curtained doorway behind her, a stack of crates ahead. Dim. Quiet. Close. She paused, pretending to smooth the ribbon at her throat.

And that’s when she felt him.

Close.

So close the heat from his chest kissed her back.

And then…

His voice.

Low. Velvet-wrapped gravel.

Southern Smoke.

“…You walk like you tryna convince yourself you ain’t afraid.”

Her breath caught. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But she could feel him—just inches away, his energy wrapping around her like silk ropes.

“…You that scared of me, baby girl?”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her hands tightened at her sides, the edge of her dress clenched between her fingers.

“No,” she whispered timidly.

He leaned in closer. His heat consuming her from behind. Still not touching. Just air, heat, and hunger.

“…Say that again,” He spoke with a hushed tone.

Her breath hitched. She tried to sound steady.

“…No.”

Smoke exhaled slowly near her ear, his mouth barely a whisper from her skin.

“You tremblin’. I ain’t even laid a hand on you yet.”

She felt a shiver ripple down her spine. Her knees wanted to give. Her voice betrayed her body.

And still…she stayed.

Quiet.

Soft.

Open.

He could smell her now. Skin warm, breath sweet, the faintest scent of fear laced with something deeper.

Want.

“You run now, I’ll let you go,” he murmured, pausing for effect, “But you stay?” He tilted his head dangerously close, “You mine to learn.”

And she stayed.

Trembling.

Timid.

But not moving.

She didn’t dare move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe right.

Smoke was right there with his breath still warming her shoulder, his voice still curling around her spine like smoke through cracks in a door. Her body was betraying her—softening, aching, silently begging.

She didn’t need his hands to feel claimed.

She already did.

But then…

He stepped back.

Just a half-inch or less. And somehow, the loss of him, of his warmth, his weight, his watchfulness, hit her harder than the press of his body ever could have.

She blinked.

Her fingers curled against her thighs.

And then she felt it…

The tension between them stretch like silk soaked in heat.

He hadn’t touched her once. But she felt more bare in that moment than she ever had undressed. He watched her for a breath longer—just watched. Then his voice came, quiet. Steady.

“…You don’t even know what you doin’, do you?”

She shook her head. Slowly.

Smoke hummed, “Didn’t think so.”

Another pause. The air thick between them.

“…But I do.”

And then?

He turned.

Walked away slow. Boots low and heavy on the floor.

Didn’t touch her.

Didn’t speak again.

Just left her standing there in the soft light, alone with the ache he placed between her thighs without ever laying a finger on her.

The room was still.

Only the faint hum of music bleeding through the walls, the occasional moan from the back hallway, the creak of footsteps overhead.

Violet sat alone on her narrow bed behind the curtain, legs curled beneath her, slip still clinging to her thighs like a second skin.

Her breath was slow. But her chest rose too fast.

She could still feel him.

The heat of his body. The gravel of his voice. The way he whispered like he could taste her fear and loved the flavor.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t even touched her.

He didn’t have to.

She slid her hand to her chest.

Just above the ribbon.

Her fingers trembled slightly, tracing the bow. Then lower—over the curve of her breast, down the dip between her ribs.

She thought of his voice in her ear.

You tremblin’. I ain’t even laid a hand on you yet…

A whimper caught in her throat.

She lay back, the pillow cool beneath her, eyes half-lidded.

Her knees parted.

The silk slipped higher.

And with a breath she didn’t know she was holding, her hand slid lower.

Between the heat.

Through the ache.

Right where he left her wanting.

She touched her pussy like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to—soft, tentative, gasping.

But the more she remembered his voice…

But you stay? You mine to learn.

…the deeper her fingers sank.

Violet stroked her clit gently, like she was afraid of what her body would do if she pressed down harder. Her hips twitched faintly. She shut her eyes, drifting back to the way his body felt behind her, a heat so intense. She could hear how soaked her folds are. The sound deafening. Violet opened wider, whimpering. Moaning soft and faint. Barely above a whisper.

She came quickly, shaking, the sound muffled against her wrist as her body clenched and opened around nothing—but the memory of him. When it passed, she lay there breathless, thighs damp, skin burning. He hadn’t touched her.

But Smoke Moore already owned her breath.

The ache between her legs and the exhaustion of her strong climax had Violet slipping into sleep like a drop falling into warm syrup. She was still wet between her thighs. Still flushed from the touch she gave herself.

But what lingered most wasn’t her own fingers.

It was him.

Smoke.

His breath.

His voice.

His presence like thunder waiting to break.

And now…he was in her dream.

She wasn’t sure where she was. The walls didn’t matter. The light was soft and gold. She was bare, thighs parted, laid out like a sacrament on fresh sheets.

And he was standing there.

Smoke Moore.

No coat. No holster. Just skin and shadow and slow breath.

He didn’t say a word. He just stepped forward and stared at her like she was already split open for him.

She felt no fear.

Only ache.

Only longing.

If he had touched me…

He knelt between her legs, eyes locked to hers as his hand grazed her inner thigh.

Not rushed.

Not rough.

Just…inevitable.

“Did you cum thinkin’ about me?” he asked in her dream, voice low as river water.

She couldn’t speak.

He smirked.

“You wet in your sleep. That ain’t just a dream. That’s your body rememberin’ what it never had.”

She gasped when he touched her there—just once—and it was enough to make her cry out.

He didn’t stop. He dragged his tongue along her thigh, slow, teeth grazing her skin. Her hips lifted on instinct.

His voice came again—dark and thick.

“You want me to eat it, baby?”

She nodded.

Eyes wide. Lips parted.

He smiled against her inner thigh.

“Then keep your legs open, and let me feast.”

And when he did?

She broke.

Soft cries. Trembling thighs. A climax that rolled through her like waves licking the shore of some secret island.

She woke gasping.

Sweating.

Empty.

And aching all over again.

Don’t hide from me, girl. I see you. And what’s mine don’t got to shrink…

Come here. Bring all that fear, all that want. Bring it to me. I got you…

Next time you touch yourself thinkin’ ’bout me, you better come find me instead. I wanna see it. Hear it. Taste it…

Violet hadn’t slept much.

The morning light pressed in low through the gauzy curtain, soft gold and dust-flecked. She’d stirred on and off—waking breathless, thighs damp, her dream replaying in vivid, pulsing fragments. Now she sat at the small vanity tucked in the corner of her sleeping space, brushing her hair in slow, gentle strokes.

Her eyes were unfocused.

Her thighs still pressed together.

Her body hummed with memory.

His mouth.

His hands.

That voice—low and knowing—telling her to stay open and let him feast.

She swallowed.

Her ribbon was untied. Hung loose down her chest like a thread of silk she no longer needed to hide behind.

She glanced at herself in the mirror.

Her cheeks were warm. Her lips slightly swollen from biting them in sleep. She looked kissed. Touched. Marked. But it had only been a dream.

And still…

Her body didn’t care.

She picked up a small notebook from the drawer—just pages she sometimes jotted thoughts in when the silence got too loud. She didn’t write much. Just a line.

Her hand trembled as she spelled it:

He hasn’t touched me.

But I feel like I belong to him.

She closed the book softly.

Set it down.

And then went to draw her bath, knees still aching from how hard they had clenched the night before.

The Blackline was quieter in the morning.

But not silent.

The house never slept fully. It shifted. Stretched like a cat in the sun, its sounds softer but still alive. Footsteps on creaking floorboards, water boiling on the stove, a distant radio playing slow Delta blues on the back porch. The sun leaked in through the stained-glass windows—coloring the wooden floors in fragments of amber, rose, and wine.

Curtains hung loose.

Smoke from someone’s cigarette curled lazily through a shaft of light in the parlor. The girls were up and moving—some in robes, hair pinned, faces bare. Others already dressed, painting their mouths red in shared mirrors, laughing soft between swigs of morning bourbon. There was perfume in the air, powder and orange blossom, musky oils, sweat sweetened by heat.

Stockings were hung over chairs to dry.

Heels lined the baseboards like soldiers.

Some girls cleaned their rooms. Others climbed into each other’s beds for warmth or gossip or comfort. Someone was ironing lingerie in the kitchen. Someone else was bent over a basin, washing blood from silk with careful fingers and a hymn on her tongue.

Stack was around, but easy.

He was seated at the long table near the front room, counting money from the weekend, cigar between his teeth. His suspenders hung loose over a rumpled shirt. Every so often, he’d pause, lean back, and scratch the side of his face while listening to the radio.

“We need more rye,” he muttered to no one, “And more ice.”

No one answered.

He didn’t care.

He just kept flipping bills.

Violet moved differently.

Not slower. Not faster.

Just…more aware.

She’d bathed early. Combed her curly hair back into a bun. She wore a soft green slip today, thin at the shoulders, hugging her hips.

Violet didn’t talk much. Just lingered in doorways. Sat near open windows. Swept when asked. Watched.

Always watched.

Her eyes traced the curls of smoke rising from Cordelia’s cigarette…the shape of a dancer’s back as she stretched in the hall…the gold necklace one girl wore backwards so it draped down the small of her back like a secret.

But her thoughts weren’t on the house.

They were on him.

Smoke.

His voice still echoed in her.

His breath still lived in the bend of her neck. Every step she took, every time her thighs brushed together under silk, she remembered.

You mine to learn.

She didn’t know what she wanted.

But she knew what her body remembered as she walked the halls of The Blackline with his gaze still burned into her skin.

Not to long after, Violet was folding linen napkins in the side parlor, the morning light slanting across her bare feet. She didn’t speak much that day. Just moved with her usual softness, her hair pinned loose, her green slip fluttering just above her knees.

Her body still felt tender.

Sensitive in places she didn’t dare touch again just yet.

She’d just finished setting the last napkin down when Cordelia passed by with her robe open, heels clicking, cigarette trailing a ribbon of smoke.

She paused at the archway and looked back at Violet with that same cat-glint smile.

“Smoke’s back from town.”

Violet looked up.

“Oh?”

Cordelia nodded, walking over to the tea tray on the buffet.

“He asked for coffee. But he don’t really drink it. Likes it warm, though. Something bitter in the mouth, sweet in the aftertaste…”

She poured a black cup, added a drizzle of cane syrup, then held it out to Violet.

“You bring it to him.”

Violet’s hands froze.

Cordelia’s smile widened just slightly.

“He’s out back, takin’ off his boots.”

“Why me?” Violet asked softly, eyes lowered.

Cordelia leaned in, voice low and lazy.

“Because he didn’t ask for it from nobody else.”

She pressed the handle of the cup into Violet’s palm.

“Go on. He won’t bite…Not yet.”

Cordelia sauntered off, leaving Violet with a task. A task that left her heart thumping beneath her ribs. She stared down at the cup, then exhaled a rattled breath. She took a moment to gather her thoughts before facing the man that she thought of while playing with her pussy. Dreaming of almost every night since she’d laid eyes on him.

Violet walked down the hall slow, cup trembling slightly in her hand.

Each step felt louder than it should.

The back door was open, light pouring in golden against the floorboards.

She could smell him before she saw him—leather, pine, dust, tobacco. The scent curled around her like haze and made her thighs press together. He was seated on the edge of the porch, shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled up, one boot off, the other halfway unlaced.

He didn’t look up when she approached.

“Heard you comin’,” he said, voice rough from the road.

Violet paused just behind him, heart pounding.

“…Cordelia said you wanted coffee.”

“Mmm.”

She stepped beside him, carefully placing the cup on the small table near his hand.

He finally looked up.

Right at her.

His eyes dragged over her face. Her lips. Her collarbone.

“You bring it ‘cause she asked you to?”

Her breath hitched.

“Yes.” She replied with a small voice.

He reached for the cup, sipped once, then leaned back.

“And you stayin’ now ‘cause she told you to?”

Violet said nothing.

Smoke’s lips curled faintly at the edges, “Didn’t think so.”

He looked out over the trees again.

“You smell like rosewater. That yours?”

She nodded.

“Don’t wear too much of it,” he murmured, “Makes a man wanna follow you ‘til he finds where it’s comin’ from.”

Violet swallowed hard.

“I’ll…I’ll remember that.”

He didn’t look at her again. But his voice was low enough she felt it in her stomach.

“Good girl.”

The words followed her like heat.

Good girl.

Two little syllables—barely more than breath—but they landed like a hand pressed between her thighs.

Violet didn’t reply.

Didn’t dare look at him again.

She turned.

Careful. Quiet. Controlled.

And walked back inside with the empty tray still trembling in her fingers.

Her knees felt soft.

Her core hummed.

The ribbon at her throat suddenly felt like too much and not enough all at once. She moved through the hallway like a girl floating—dazed, raw, skin warm from within. In the mirror of the front parlor, she caught her reflection.

Cheeks flushed.

Eyes wide.

Lips parted.

And she whispered it once—not for anyone else to hear.

“Good girl.”

Her thighs clenched hard.

Her breath hitched.

And she didn’t sit for a long time after that.

Because the ache between her legs was too tender.

Too fresh.

And that voice—his voice—was still buried in her bones.

It was Cordelia again.

Mid-afternoon, warm light spilling through the windows, the house quieter now—girls resting, Stack gone off with a bottle and a deck of cards. Cordelia found Violet in the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

“Smoke’s washin’ up out back,” she said, casual, like she wasn’t smirking behind her cigarette, “He asked for a fresh shirt. You know where the clean ones are. Go on and take it to him.”

Violet didn’t ask why.

She just nodded.

And tried not to let her hands shake when she folded the crisp white fabric over her arm.

Smoke was on the porch again.

Hair freshly slicked, combed back with a deep side part by Stack’s hand, glinting beneath the low sun. He wore only his trousers now—bare from the waist up, his back to her as he dried his hands with a cloth. His skin was the color of wet earth and iron, all tanned deeply from the heat of the South. Broad back, ridged muscle. Scars. One long one across his shoulder blade like he’d been cut once and never talked about it.

He turned when he heard her.

Didn’t speak at first.

Just looked.

“You bring that for me?” he asked, voice thick as velvet syrup

She nodded, holding out the shirt for him to take.

“You wanna help?” he said low.

Not teasing.

Just offering.

She hesitated.

Then stepped closer.

Violet unfolded the shirt in shaking hands. His body radiated heat. He smelled like soap, cedar, and something underneath—raw and masculine and animal. He bent his arms slightly and she slid the fabric over one first, then the other, brushing her fingers along his forearm to pull the sleeve through.

Her hands trembled against his skin.

When she reached up to guide the shirt over his back and onto his shoulders, her palm skimmed the top of his chest.

He was watching her the whole time.

Quiet.

Steady.

Hungry.

“You always this careful,” he murmured, “or is it just me?”

She couldn’t speak.

Her fingers hovered at the buttons.

Smoke leaned forward slightly.

“Start at the top, baby. I like it slow.”

She obeyed.

One button.

Then the next.

Each one closer to his heart.

Violet’s fingers brushed the top button.

The white cotton was still warm from his skin, soft from wear but clinging in places where his chest curved and swelled—solid and unyielding. She pressed the first button through the hole slowly, careful not to tremble too much.

Smoke didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

He just watched her.

His head tilted slightly, eyes locked on her mouth as she worked her way down.

Each button brought her closer to the center of him.

Her knuckles brushed his sternum.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, like if he breathed too deep he might lose the self-restraint he wore better than his clothes. By the third button, she could feel the beat of his heart beneath the cotton.

Not fast.

But heavy.

Her hands moved lower, guiding the fabric closed over his ribs, over the slight dip above his navel.

She could feel his heat through it.

Could smell the mix of soap and sweat and skin.

And even though he hadn’t touched her…

She felt him everywhere.

His voice came, low and gritty, just as she reached the last button.

“You always this gentle?”

She didn’t look up.

Didn’t trust herself to.

Her fingers slowed at the last button. Held it there.

“I…I don’t know,” she whispered.

Smoke leaned forward just slightly.

“That mean I’m your first?”

She blinked hard.

Her lips parted.

But her answer—whatever it might’ve been—caught in her throat.

She finished the button.

Pulled her hands away.

Tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

He stared at her.

A full breath.

Two.

Then stepped back.

Not far. Just enough for the air to grow colder between them.

His shirt was buttoned now.

His body clothed.

But the tension?

Still naked.

“You done real careful,” he said finally, “Almost too careful.”

He turned before she could reply. Smoke reached for his hat, smoothed it on top of that slicked-back part, and stepped off the porch.

No touch.

No praise.

No smile.

Just the soft clink of his belt, the low creak of the stairs…

And the sound of Violet’s breath shaking in the absence of everything she wanted.

As Smoke stepped off the porch, the screen door whispered closed behind him. He didn’t light a cigarette right away.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t curse.

He just kept walking—down the back path, past the chicken wire fence, past the empty rain barrel, boots scuffing dirt as if the earth itself needed to feel how tense he was.

His hands flexed at his sides.

Jaw tight.

Chest tight.

He could still feel her fingers—soft, unsure, adoring—moving down his shirt one slow button at a time like she was afraid touching him might make her burn.

Hell, it just about burned him.

Good girl.

He’d said it without thinking.

But the sound of it on his tongue felt too damn natural.

Too right.

He made it to the old toolshed behind the fig tree and leaned against the frame, the wood creaking under the weight of him.

He rolled his neck once.

Twice.

Then finally lit a match.

The tobacco sparked. Smoke curled.

But the fire in his blood?

It didn’t cool.

She didn’t know what she was doing to him.

She couldn’t.

That little ribbon at her throat, the way her lashes fluttered when he spoke, the way her thighs brushed with every step like they ached even when she didn’t move.

She didn’t even smell like the other girls.

She smelled…quiet. Like rosewater and something softer underneath. Something only he’d find if he buried his face deep enough to taste it.

And that tremble in her hands?

God.

He wanted to hold her wrists and make them tremble harder. He wanted to hear what her breath sounded like when it broke. He wanted her on his lap, in his bed, under his weight, whisperin’ his name like a sin she’d learned to love.

But he didn’t touch her.

Because if he did?

I wouldn’t stop. And I ain’t ready to let her see that part of me…Not yet.

He took another drag from the cigarette.

Felt the ache in his dick throb hard beneath his belt. He wouldn’t jerk off. Wouldn’t give himself that release.

Not for her.

Not yet.

He’d wait.

And when she came to him—when she begged?

He’d give her everything he’d been holding back.

And she’d finally understand why he kept walking away.

The next few days passed like molasses poured over flame. The air in The Blackline stayed thick—sweet in the morning, sultry at dusk, dangerous by night.

Smoke and Violet never said much.

But everything between them spoke loud as thunder.

Every morning, she brought him his coffee.

Same way: hot, bitter, with a thread of cane syrup stirred slow.

She never asked if he wanted it.

She just brought it.

And he always took it from her hand, brushing her fingers like an accident he meant.

She watched him when he cleaned his pistols. He’d sit out back with a rag over his lap, gunmetal gleaming, sunlight sliding down the ridges of his forearms. She’d pretend to be folding laundry near the open window—but her eyes always found him.

And Smoke?

He let her watch.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Just dragged a slow cloth over the barrel like he was teaching her how he handled things that got out of line. When Stack came by, they sat close at the porch table, talking in low tones over the hiss of liquor being poured into tin cups.

Business.

Bootlegging routes. Threats. Names.

Violet couldn’t hear it all. But she saw how they leaned in close—twin shadows, born from something brutal, bound tighter than blood.

And even then…

Smoke would glance at her.

Every time she passed, every time she walked near.

He noticed.

By nightfall When the house came alive, Violet floated. Soft slip. Ribbon back around her throat. Mouth painted the color of crushed berries.

Men watched her like moths.

Some tried to talk sweet.

Some talked slick.

She smiled. Laughed. Gave lap dances but never let them touch too much.

And always, Smoke watched.

Sometimes from the booth near the back. Sometimes from the bar. Sometimes while he cleaned a blade behind the curtain.

Until one night.

A man—drunk, swollen with coin and frustration—grabbed her arm too tight.

“I done spent two whole nights feedin’ you drinks, girl,” he slurred, spit thick in his throat, “You ain’t gon’ keep teasin’ me like that.”

She pulled back, “let go of me—”

He grabbed harder.

Her ribbon pulled loose.

“Lemme see what I paid for,” he snapped.

Smoke moved like a shadow with teeth.

No warning.

No shout.

Just there—sudden, solid, deadly.

Hand at the man’s collar. Gun drawn. Cold steel pressed against his cheekbone. Violet flinched, stepping back as she watched with wide eyes.

“You touch her again,” Smoke growled, voice like thunder in a cellar, “and I’ma put a hole in your face so clean they’ll bury you in silk.”

The whole room stilled.

Girls froze.

Men backed up.

Even Stack sat up straighter.

The man stammered. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Empty your pockets.”

“What—?”

“Every dollar. Every coin. Give it to her.”

The man looked at Violet.

Then at Smoke.

Then started dumping crumpled bills and coins into Violet’s palm.

Smoke’s voice dropped lower, but heavier. He raised the end of his pistol and cracked the man on the side of the face. Sharp. Bloody.

“You step foot back in this house…I’m killin’ you where you stand.”

Then he shoved him back hard—sent him stumbling towards the front by Stack’s bodyguards, half-drunk and humiliated, clutching the side of his face as blood seeped through his fingers. They shoved him out the front door. Left him stumbling into the night with his pride bleeding and Smoke’s threat still ringing in his ears.

The man was officially gone.

And just like that, everyone knew.

Violet wasn’t just pretty.

Wasn’t just new.

She belonged to someone.

Even if he hadn’t said it yet.

The room had started breathing again—slow, nervous, pulsing like something had just been broken and patched back together.

But Violet…she hadn’t moved.

She stood near the back wall, breath shallow, one hand curled around the ribbon at her throat, the other hanging limp at her side.

Smoke stepped toward her.

“You alright?”

His voice was low, but she felt it in her chest like it pushed past her bones.

Her eyes lifted to meet his, then they dropped, dragging slowly down the front of him.

The crisp lines of his buttoned shirt.

The shadow of muscle straining beneath cotton.

The dark holster vest at his chest and the way his gun disappeared into it like it had always belonged there. He shifted his arm and the fabric clung tight across his biceps.

Violet nodded faintly.

But her eyes… they were wide. Glossy. Shaken.

Smoke moved closer.

Suddenly.

His hand came up, rough fingers catching her wrist before she could tuck it behind her back.

She flinched.

“Lemme see,” he murmured.

His thumb pressed into the skin just above her pulse.

There was a faint red mark where the man had grabbed her.

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

That was when Stack stepped in.

“What the hell happened?”

His voice hit the room like a hammer.

He looked between them.

Saw the look on Smoke’s face.

Saw the way Violet’s body shook.

“He hurt her?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack turned to Violet, eyes gentler, “You alright, baby girl?”

She nodded. Still quiet.

Stack looked at Smoke again, voice lower. Sharper.

“If we catch that son of a bitch,” He stepped closer, “We kill him. Don’t nobody hurt my girls. You hear me?”

Smoke gave a slow nod.

Stack squeezed Violet’s shoulder and walked off, muttering something to one of the other men.

When they were alone again, Violet looked up.

“…Thank you.”

Her voice cracked.

Her eyes still glossy.

Smoke met her gaze, calm and steady.

“You ain’t got no worry,” he said, “Me and my brother? We’ll kill any man that tries to put hurt on a woman in this house.”

His thumb brushed over the mark on her wrist once more.

Gentle. Intentional.

“That’s a promise.”

Then he let her go.

Turned.

And walked back into the dark—the weight of his words curling in the air like gun smoke.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Sinners Masterlist

All things Elias ‘Stack’ Moore and Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore

Smut, Fluff, Angst, Violence, Mentions of blood, 18+ Content

ELIJAH ‘SMOKE’ MOORE FICS:

I Put A Spell On You Part One

I Put A Spell On You Part Two

I Put A Spell On You Part Three

I Put A Spell On You Part Four (coming soon)

It Should Have Been You *one-shot*

The Blackline Part One

The Blackline Part Two

The Blackline Part Thee

The Blackline Part Four

The Blackline Part Five

The Blackline Part Six

The Blackline Part Seven

The Blackline Part Eight

The Blackline Part Nine (coming soon)

ELIAS ‘STACK’ MOORE FICS:

Route 666 Part One

Route 666 Part Two

Route 666 Part Three

Route 666 Part Four (coming soon)

I Need You *one-shot*

Headcannon: FIELD B*TCHES?!

Sanctified Heat Part One

ANNIE X ELIJAH MOORE FICS (ft. ELIAS MOORE AND OTHER CHARACTERS):

Hoodoo Apprentice Part One

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Two

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Three

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Four

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Five (5.1)

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Five (5.2)

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Six (coming soon)

Shave Em Dry Part One

SMOKESTACK TWINS X READER/OC:

Velvet Heat & Country Sin

FIC SUMMARIES TO COME:

The Roaring Thief [Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore]

Charleston Dance [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Pandora Moore [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Summer of ‘72 [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Back Water Blues [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Petting Party [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Tragedy & Comedy [Smoke x Stack x other characters]

Black Star Line [Smoke x Stack x OC]

In Her Silence, Fire [Stack x OC]

Black Honey: No Mercy [Smoke x Stack x OC]

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Five

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

The room was hushed, the kind of hush that only comes after something holy. Dawn hadn’t fully broken, but the sky through the high window had softened into a dusty gray-blue. The sheets smelled of him—warm skin, faint bourbon, a thread of smoke and something deeper, like cloves pressed between old pages.

Violet stirred.

She was still nude, tucked beneath the heavy weight of Smoke’s dark sheets, and her body ached with the afterglow of the night before. Her thighs were tender, lips swollen. She felt claimed in the best way—not ruined, not marked—but remembered. His arm was slung heavy around her waist, palm resting possessively against the curve of her lower back. He lay behind her, shirtless, breath warm at her nape, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady in sleep.

She turned slightly in his hold, shifting onto her side to face him, careful not to wake him.

He was still.

His long lashes were dark against his cheekbones, his mouth relaxed, slightly parted. The muscles of his chest and shoulders were softened by sleep, but even in rest, he looked powerful—the kind of man carved by real work, real hunger, and long silences. A faint scar slashed near his collarbone. Another peeked from under the edge of the sheet, faded but jagged like it had once meant something.

Violet lay still for a while, just watching him. Safe in the crook of his arm.

Her fingers itched.

She reached out—softly, carefully—and brushed her knuckles against his jaw. He didn’t stir.

She touched his lips next, feather-light. His breath ghosted against her fingertips.

Her hand drifted lower. Along the slope of his throat, down the broad plane of his chest, pausing at the dip between his pectorals, where the skin warmed into something more vulnerable. She traced the edge of his ribs… then found it—that spot.

That tender, secret space just beneath his ribs, where breath lived shallow and quick.

Her fingers brushed it.

He groaned.

It wasn’t sharp—more like a low sound from the belly. A warning and a want, all at once.

Violet gasped and jerked her hand back, instinctively curling her body against his in apology.

His voice came a moment later, still thick with sleep.

“Don’t stop.”

She blinked. His eyes were still closed.

“Don’t…don’t stop?” she whispered.

“Mmhmm.”

His voice was rough, gravelly—deeper in the morning, like it had been dragged through bourbon and dreams.

“Feels good when you touch me like that, girl.”

One arm tightened around her waist. The other lifted, brushing gently down her spine. His fingers splayed across her back and began to move, slow, warm, tender —rubbing soft circles like he was calming her or himself.

“Didn’t think I’d sleep at all after last night,” he murmured, voice lazy, “But you…you wore me out, sugar. Ain’t even had you fully yet.”

Violet’s lips parted, but no words came.

Her hand returned to his chest. She traced again—slow this time, more confident. He hummed low in approval, eyes still shut, face softened into something she hadn’t yet seen from him in the light: peace.

He pulled her in closer, breath ghosting over her temple.

“You keep that up, I ain’t lettin’ you leave this bed,” he whispered.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” she whispered back.

He smiled against her hair.

“Good.”

She felt her breath catch. But his hand didn’t push or pull—it simply invited. Violet shifted slightly in the sheets, and Smoke opened his eyes just enough to see her face in the soft gray morning. Then, without a word, he reached up and gently brushed a curl from her cheek, the back of his knuckles ghosting her skin.

“C’mere, baby.”

He guided her onto his chest, coaxing her to straddle him. She moved with hesitation—still nude, still blushing—but obeyed, limbs trembling slightly as she settled atop his waist. He was warm beneath her, all sinew and slow breath, wearing nothing but soft cotton boxers and the scent of sleep and her sex.

Her curls tumbled forward, framing her face.

Smoke leaned up slightly and kissed her—soft at first, reverent, letting her linger in it. Then deeper. Her blush bloomed across her high cheeks and the warm brown of her chest, blooming down her throat like syrup over copper.

“Damn,” he whispered between kisses, “You glow when you blush…You know that?”

She tried to look away, but he caught her chin, tilting it back toward him.

“Ain’t nothin’ to hide here.”

He kissed her again, and when they pulled apart, he kept her close—his hands roaming her thighs, her hips, not to claim her but to learn her.

Then his voice dipped lower. Curious. Honest.

“Tell me your full name,” he said, voice low and curious.

She hesitated, fingers tracing a soft line over his chest.

“Violet Elanora James.”

He watched her a moment longer, then asked gently, “You always gone by Violet?”

Her gaze dropped, and a small smile touched her lips. One laced with memory, not amusement.

“My grandmother used to call me Lula-Bee.”

“Lula-Bee,” he repeated, letting it settle on his tongue.

She nodded, her voice soft, “She said bees were sacred. Messengers between this world and the next. Lula-Bee was her name for me. Meant I was sweet… and not to be messed with.”

Smoke’s thumb brushed the curve of her jaw, tender.

“She saw you true. She sounds like she was somethin’ special.”

Violet smiled then, quiet but whole.

“She was.”

Her voice thinned, and the air between them turned quiet. When she spoke again, it was laced with something aching.

“She passed when I was fifteen. After that…things got real bad.”

He didn’t ask how.

Didn’t need to.

Just shifted beneath her, his hand steady at the nape of her neck.

“That why you came here? To Little Rock?”

Violet nodded once, then she spoke, “I needed to get away. South Carolina ain’t…safe for girls like me. Not when the ones who supposed to protect you are the ones who—”

Her voice caught. Broke off.

Smoke didn’t press. He just slid his palm to her back, warm and grounding.

“You got out,” he said gently, “That’s what matters now.”

She breathed in deep, let it settle in her ribs.

“What about you?” she asked softly, “Where you from?”

Smoke leaned his head back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded now as he looked up at her like she was a secret he’d been waiting for.

“Clarksdale,” he said, “Mississippi born. Fought in the war when I was barely grown. Came back with hands that shake and a temper I bury in work.”

She nodded, listening.

“…Chicago after that. Ran with men who made more enemies than friends. Came down here with my brother to build something new. Ain’t been touched by much good since…”

Smoke met Violet’s eyes, then his voice dropped quieter.

“Till you.”

Violet’s breath hitched again.

“Elijah. That’s my name. Elijah Moore. Folks call me Smoke.”

“It suits you,” she spoke with a hushed tone, “You burn slow.”

He smiled at that—crooked and soft.

Then his voice turned serious. Steady.

“I want somethin’, Violet. And I don’t take nothin’ without askin’.”

She straightened a little on his chest, her hands still on his skin.

“When I say you mine…I don’t mean I own you. I mean I see you. And I want you to be my woman.”

The air between them went still. She stared at him, lips parted. No one had ever asked her like that. Not as if she mattered. Not as if the answer mattered.

Her voice was soft, but it didn’t shake.

“I’d love to.”

Smoke exhaled, then smiled again—slow, warm, something private behind it.

“Good.”

His hands slid up her thighs again, resting at her hips.

“If you alright wit’ it…I wanna give you lessons.”

“Lessons?” she echoed.

“Not just sex. Not just touch. I mean real ones. How to open up. How to trust what you feel. How to let me in, bit by bit.”

She swallowed.

“You want to teach me?”

“Nah,” he said, “I want to learn you.”

He leaned up and kissed her again—longer this time, deeper, like sealing something.

“Lesson one,” he whispered against her mouth, “Don’t be afraid of what you want. Not here. Not with me.”

The windows were still dark, the first blush of dawn just threatening the edges of the sky. Smoke sat against the headboard now, legs spread, one big hand cupping the curve of her ass beneath the sheets, the other dragging slowly up her spine. He still wore his boxers, but her heat pressed against him so hot and wet he could feel her through the fabric.

“You tryna kill me this mornin’, little one?” he muttered against her mouth.

Violet’s hips rocked once, slow.

“Just…just want you…”

Her voice was breathless, sweet.

He groaned low, letting his head fall back, fingers gripping her tighter.

“Goddamn.”

He kissed her again—filthy, open-mouthed, tongue stroking deep, slow, as she whimpered into him. His hand slid up to palm her breast, thumb brushing across her nipple until she arched. Her bare skin was warm silk against his. Her ribbon, still tied, trailed lightly against his chest with every shift of her breath.

He tilted his head, dark eyes fixed on her flushed face.

“You my woman?” he asked low, voice dragging like honey poured over smoke.

Violet blinked slow, her lips parted.

He brushed a knuckle up her spine, over her shoulder, then down to cup her breast.

“Huh, little one? You my girl? My baby?”

Her breath trembled.

And then—soft as sugar melting on the tongue…

“Yes…”

That little voice he loved.

That whisper that made him feral.

His hand slid between her thighs, cupping her, not moving yet. Just holding her.

“You gonna let me spoil you?” he rasped, “Treat you like you deserve?”

She nodded—but he lifted her chin.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, sir…”

“That’s right.”

His lips brushed her jaw, then down her throat.

“Gonna be my good girl, huh?”

She whimpered against his mouth, body already rocking without meaning to.

“Yes…”

He slid his hand again—beneath her, between them—his length trapped against his boxers, the only barrier between him and her soaked heat.

“Fuck,” he groaned, grinding up just once, “You feel what you do to me?”

She nodded again, helpless.

And then—

A knock.

Hard. Twice.

“Elijah?” came Stack’s voice through the door, “Nigga, You up?”

Smoke let out a long, guttural groan.

Violet startled, chest rising fast, but he kept one hand on her back, steadying her.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, “You should answer.”

Smoke kissed her forehead, then reached down to pull the blanket high over her body. His palm lingered on her bare thigh before he pulled away.

“You just stay under that sheet. I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, curling into the pillow, breath still shaky.

Smoke yanked on his slacks and crossed the room barefoot, chest bare, hair slightly tousled from her hands and sleep.

He opened the door.

Stack stood there, one brow cocked, arms crossed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Stack said, eyes flicking past his brother’s shoulder, “You tied up with that pretty little thing wearin’ a satin bow?”

Smoke didn’t blink.

“Go on.”

“I’m just sayin’—don’t let me stop you. Girl looks like a prayer somebody forgot to say.”

Smoke shut the door partway behind him, stepping into the office and letting it click shut to block Violet from view.

“What you need?” he asked flatly.

Stack leaned against the desk, still grinning.

“Came to ask if you still planned to visit that preacher about the numbers. He’s been takin’ more than his bite lately.”

“Yeah,” Smoke muttered, running a hand over his jaw, “I’m gonna head out soon. Ain’t gonna ask him twice.”

Stack nodded.

“Also asked Clyde to send word if he got anything back on Felix. But he ain’t back yet from the stakeout.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“And Mercy?”

Stack’s smirk faded a touch.

“Hit her up this mornin’. Told her if she knew anything, now’s the time to start talkin’. Said she might swing by later.”

Smoke cracked his knuckles.

“Good. We need eyes everywhere.”

“Mhm.” Stack grinned again, “But right now, you look like you need somethin’ else. Somethin’ sweet.”

He tried to glance back at the bedroom door.

“You so much as peek, I’ll break your fuckin’ fingers,” Smoke muttered.

Stack laughed.

“Man, I’m just glad she got you smilin’ like that.”

Smoke didn’t smile.

Not really.

But he didn’t deny it either.

The office door clicked shut behind him. Smoke stood still for a beat, shoulders tense, jaw ticking. Then he exhaled slow, ran a hand down his face, and turned back to the bedroom. She was lying where he left her—under the sheets, tucked warm, but her eyes were on the door the whole time. Watching. Waiting.

He crossed the room in three strides.

Sat down on the edge of the bed.

And didn’t speak right away.

He just reached for her.

Violet sat up, the sheet falling softly from her chest. She was still bare, but didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide. Smoke’s fingers slid around the back of her neck, ribbon grazing his knuckles, and pulled her forehead to his.

Their breath mingled—slow, even, warm.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She nodded.

“You sure?”

Another small nod.

His hands slid down to her waist, thumbs tracing the curve of her skin.

“I’m sorry I gotta leave you like this.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

“It ain’t,”

She blushed, lips parting—but he kissed her before she could answer.

Not hungry.

Not greedy.

Just…home.

Smoke stood from the bed, still half-dressed and reluctant to leave her.

He looked back at her once, jaw working.

Then he softened.

“I’ll be back for you.”

Not if. Not maybe.

Just will.

She watched him as he moved into the bathroom, heard the water run. The clink of his toothbrush in the cup. The soft scrape of bristles. Then the low, wet sweep of pomade and comb through hair. He did it fast, efficient—but still took time to make himself presentable. She caught glimpses of him in the mirror: shirtless, powerful, focused. When he came back out, he was tucking in his dark button-down. Slipping into black slacks. A belt. The shoulder holster last.

She stayed quiet, clutching the sheet.

He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Use my shower if you want. Whatever you need.”

He looked at her—really looked—as if he wanted to burn the image into his mind.

Then he was gone.

Violet didn’t move right away.

She listened to the sound of the door shutting. The low creak of his office floorboards. Then nothing.

Just silence.

And the scent of him in the sheets.

She rose slowly, padding barefoot into his bathroom. Warm steam filled the space, laced with the sharp, clean scent of his soap and shaving cream.

She stepped into the shower. Let it run hot.

His scent stayed on her skin afterward—mixed with her own—and when she towel-dried and returned to the bedroom, she didn’t reach for her own clothes.

She went to his closet.

Button-downs. Slacks. Suspenders. Holsters. Everything in its place.

She picked a dark one—black cotton, soft and worn.

It hung off her frame like a memory, swallowing her arms and stopping mid-thigh. But it smelled like him.

It made her feel…safe.

She drifted into his office next, the wood warm beneath her feet, her hands trailing across his desk. Papers. Maps. A half-burnt cigar in the tray. She didn’t touch much.

Just took it in.

This was his space.

And for the first time, she was in it.

She stepped into the hall just as someone rounded the corner—

Cordelia.

The older woman slowed to a stop, eyes flicking over Violet in Smoke’s shirt, the fresh glow on her skin, the dampness still clinging to the ends of her curls.

A pause.

A look.

Then—

“Sleep good, baby girl?” Cordelia asked, smooth but sharp.

Violet’s cheeks flushed pink.

But she lifted her chin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

That answer was enough.

Cordelia let her pass.

No judgment in her gaze—just a flicker of amusement, maybe even a little approval.

The hallway carried more eyes.

Violet padded barefoot down the corridor, Smoke’s black shirt swallowing her frame, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, the fabric brushing mid-thigh with every step. Her damp curls hung down her back, a few still clinging to her neck.

She passed Peaches, leaning in the doorway of one of the upstairs sitting rooms, sipping from a chipped teacup.

Peaches didn’t speak.

She just offered Violet a soft, sleepy smile—gentle, not nosy, the kind of look that said: I see you, girl. I hope he was kind.

Violet smiled back, barely.

Odessa, on the other hand, made no effort to hide the way her eyes narrowed.

She stood farther down the hall, one manicured hand on her hip, silk robe tied too tight. Her gaze flicked from Violet’s bare legs to the way the shirt hung off her shoulder.

“Hmph,” she muttered, low but pointed, “Guess we lettin’ anybody walk around in management’s clothes now.”

Peaches shot Odessa a look.

“Ain’t nobody askin’ you,” Peaches spoke, not loud—but loud enough.

Violet didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t even blink.

She kept her head high, hands tugging the cuff of Smoke’s shirt where his cologne still lingered, sweet and smoky and hers.

And even though her mouth stayed neutral…

Her eyes sparkled like something precious had been hidden behind them all night.

She slipped into her room. Closed the door.

And for the first time since he left, she smiled wide.

The shirt was too big, the sleeves rolled up past her wrists, but it smelled like him.

Smoke.

Like tobacco and cedarwood soap. Like warmth and hands that never touched without asking. Like a man who said less and meant more. Violet let her fingers trail the buttons absently, curling into the soft cotton at her waist.

The room was quiet.

Just her breath.

The birds beyond the shutter.

The tug of something old and unfinished pulling from beneath the bed. She reached for the suitcase—that scuffed little thing with worn brass corners and a faded strip of ribbon tied to the handle.

She hadn’t opened it since arriving.

Not really.

She’d tucked it beneath the bed like a secret, hoping it would stay quiet. But this morning, her hands moved without asking permission.

She clicked the latches open.

The hinges creaked.

Inside, layers of her past folded like pressed laundry. The old blue scarf her grandmother used to wear while cooking. A dried bundle of herbs wrapped in red thread. A cracked mirror piece wrapped in flannel. A small cloth pouch she hadn’t dared open since the night she ran—its weight familiar, heavy with something unspoken.

She touched it, just once. Didn’t lift it.

Then closed the suitcase halfway again, lips parted, breath held. Violet sat back on the bed, the suitcase at her feet, and tugged Smoke’s shirt tighter around herself.

It swallowed her in the best way.

Not like something meant to erase her.

But like armor she didn’t have to earn.

She let her hand fall to the space beside her—where his body the one night.

Where his arms had held her like she wasn’t breakable, only precious.

Is this what safety feels like?

She blinked up at the ceiling, eyes stinging.

Not from sadness.

Not even fear.

Just…relief.

For the first time in years, she wasn’t running.

Not from men.

Not from voices.

Not from what she’d done.

She was just here.

And seen.

She closed her eyes.

Let her hand rest over her heart.

Whatever this thing is between me and him…

I want to see where it goes.

Even if I ain’t brave enough to say it out loud yet.

Even if I’ve never had nothin’ last.

Even if I don’t know how to be someone’s woman…

I think I could learn with him.

The walls of the preacher’s office were paneled in dark wood and choked with dust. A yellowed photograph of a revival tent hung crooked above a cabinet of ledgers and hymnals. The air smelled like paper, old cologne, and sour sweat.

Reverend Leonard Ellis sat behind a mahogany desk that looked too rich for a man of God.

Smoke didn’t sit.

He stood just inside the door, coat still on, shadow cast long in the low lamplight.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched the man fidget behind his papers.

“Brother Moore…” Reverend Ellis said, voice uneven, “This a surprise.”

Smoke said nothing.

The silence settled thick, like dust before a storm.

“I, uh…I was gonna send word about the numbers take. We had a slight fluctuation—some of the sisters missed their plays this week, and—”

“Fluctuation?”

Smoke’s voice dropped like a body into water.

“You runnin’ the flock dry, and you call it a fluctuation?”

Ellis swallowed.

“I—look now, I never meant to short you. Just a few extra dollars, here and there, for the building fund. We got a leak in the roof. The children’s room—”

Smoke stepped forward. One step. Then another.

Boot heels on hardwood.

“We agreed on twenty percent. You been pullin’ forty-two. Some weeks, more.”

“Times are tight,” the preacher said, raising his hands, “These people…they trust me to handle what they give.”

“And you abuse that trust.”

Smoke moved behind the desk, slow, steady, like a shadow folding over the room.

Ellis went still in his chair.

“It’s a church. People know me. You take me out and the whole town starts askin’ questions.”

Smoke reached into his coat.

Ellis flinched—but Smoke didn’t draw steel.

He pulled a handkerchief.

A white one.

Neat. Folded. Starched.

He stepped close.

Took the corner of the cloth and wiped the sweat from the reverend’s brow. Careful. Gentle.

“I ain’t takin’ you out, preacher.”

He leaned in close, voice like smoke curling under a door.

“You gon’ fall asleep at this desk. One night. With a little too much communion wine. Maybe a bad heart. People’ll cry, sing, bury you good.”

Ellis didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“But you’ll know,” Smoke whispered, “Right before you go cold, you’ll know it wasn’t wine that did it.”

He folded the handkerchief. Tucked it into the reverend’s breast pocket like a final blessing.

Then he turned to leave.

Stopped at the door.

“You got one more Sunday to make it right.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

The tires hummed steady beneath the truck.

Smoke leaned back in the seat, arm resting out the window, the wind tugging at the loose ends of his sleeves. The road stretched quiet beneath the slanting golden light, dust kicking up behind him in long ribbons.

The preacher had folded like dry paper.

Didn’t even take much. Just a few carefully chosen words, a glance at the steel on Smoke’s hip, and that low voice that promised worse than bullets.

Handled.

But his mind wasn’t on that now.

It was on her.

On that slip of a woman curled in his sheets that morning.

On her whisper—“yes”—when he asked if she was his.

The ribbon at her throat.

The way she straddled him, bare and blooming.

That little smile she tried to hide when he kissed her temple before leaving.

Mine, he thought.

He passed a small roadside stall—painted red, shaded with a patchwork awning. A Black woman with silver braids sat on a stool surrounded by bouquets tied in twine.

He almost drove past.

But then his eyes caught the soft flash of purple bundled in the middle bucket.

Violets.

He eased the truck off the road.

Didn’t say much. Just pointed.

The woman smiled.

“She must be somethin’ real special.”

Smoke only nodded.

Paid in cash.

The house buzzed with its usual rhythm, but everything slowed when Smoke walked in. He carried the violets loose in one hand, the stems still damp. His boots hit the stairs one at a time—solid, unhurried—but every girl in earshot paused.

Odessa leaned on the railing just to watch.

Cordelia, sipping her drink from the bar, raised a brow but said nothing.

Peaches gave a soft little hum from behind her book.

By now?

They all knew.

He was going to her.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t need to.

Violet’s door was closed, but unlocked. He opened it gently and stepped inside. She was at her vanity, brushing her hair out in the soft late light. Still barefoot, still wearing his black button-down—it hung low on her thighs, sleeves rolled, the collar slipping off one shoulder.

Smoke stopped for a beat.

Just watched her.

Then crossed the room, slow and silent. She didn’t hear him at first—until she felt the heat of his body behind her, the way his lips brushed the side of her neck, soft and deliberate.

She gasped quietly—then smiled, relaxing back into him.

“You came back…”

“Told you I would.”

He reached around her.

Held out the violets, stems wrapped in brown paper.

Her breath caught.

“For me?”

“For you.”

“They’re beautiful…”

“Not as much as you.”

She turned slowly on the stool, took them into her hands, cradling them like something sacred.

Smoke brushed her curls back from her face.

“You said you were mine,” he spoke gently, “So I brought you yours.”

Violet stared at the violets in her hands for a long moment.

They were a little imperfect—a few petals slightly curled, the stems uneven—but that made them more beautiful. More real. She stood, crossed the room to the corner where a small white pitcher sat on her windowsill. It had once held sweet tea and lemon slices. Now it held water and possibility.

She placed the flowers inside.

Arranged them gently.

The light caught the petals—deep purple velvet, soft as dusk.

She stepped back and looked at them. Looked at Smoke.

“No one’s ever brought me flowers before,” she whispered.

Smoke leaned back against the edge of the vanity, arms folded, watching her like a man watching a candle catch.

“Then they ain’t been lookin’ at you right.”

She came to him, slow.

Stood between his knees and rested her hands on his shoulders. He let his palms slide up the backs of her thighs beneath the shirt, not to stir her—just to hold her. Her breath slowed as he pulled her in closer.

“Did everything go alright?” she asked.

“Handled.”

“You okay?”

He nodded, then paused.

“You make it hard to leave.”

She smiled.

“You make it hard to wait.”

He chuckled once, deep in his chest.

Then went quiet again.

His fingers traced slow, lazy circles along her skin.

“You ever think about leavin’ this place?” he asked after a moment.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “But I don’t know where I’d go. Not when I feel safest right here…”

“If I asked you to come somewhere—with me…would you think on it?”

She met his eyes.

“Are you askin’ now?”

“Not yet,” he said, “But I’m gettin’ close.”

The light dimmed behind her violets.

And in that hush, nothing more needed to be said.

They didn’t undress.

Didn’t touch each other with urgency.

Instead, they lay side by side atop her quilt, his shirt still on her body, her cheek against his chest, his arm folded beneath her head. One of his hands rested lightly on her hip, thumb moving in idle strokes, as if he needed the contact to stay steady.

The windows had gone gray.

Outside, the house stirred toward evening—distant music, faint laughter, the hum of something familiar.

But in Violet’s room, it was still.

No need to speak.

Smoke’s eyes closed eventually, not in sleep, but in rest. That rare kind of stillness that only she seemed to coax from him.

Her fingers played lightly with the chain around his neck, curling it between her thumb and forefinger.

“When you’re with me,” she whispered, “everything feels quiet.”

Smoke opened his eyes.

Turned his head.

And pressed a kiss to her crown.

“Then I’ll keep comin’ back to you.”

Meanwhile, The knock came just after sundown. Stack was alone, leaned over the desk, shuffling papers when Clyde cracked the door open—his silhouette edged with dusk and sweat.

“You said to come straight to you,” Clyde muttered, stepping inside.

Stack straightened.

Eyes already narrowed.

“You get somethin’?”

Clyde nodded.

“Saw Felix myself. Passed through the south end. Ain’t just him. He got new men.”

“New?”

“Big. Mean. Like they don’t speak much English. One of ‘em carried a knife bigger than my damn arm.”

Stack nodded once, taking it in.

“What else?”

Clyde hesitated.

“He had a woman with him.”

Stack stilled.

“What woman?”

“Dunno her name. Never seen her before,” Clyde said, voice dropping slightly. “But she wasn’t like the rest of ‘em.”

“How you mean?”

“She moved like she floated,” he said, “Didn’t blink much. Didn’t speak. Just stared. I was across the street, but I swear she knew I was there.”

Stack raised an eyebrow.

“She saw you?”

“Not exactly. But I felt it. Like she looked through the wall. Right through me. Made the hair on my neck stand straight up.”

He shifted, clearly unsettled.

“Felt like…like I was bein’ watched even after I walked away.”

Stack’s jaw clenched.

Slow. Heavy.

“You tell Smoke yet?”

“No. Was waitin’ on your say-so.”

Stack stepped away from the desk, ran a hand down his face, then reached for the small switchblade he always kept tucked beside his ledgers.

“Alright.”

“You want me to send word?”

“No,” Stack said, “Let him have a little more peace tonight.”

He slipped the blade into his pocket.

“He’ll need it.”

Violet lay soft and spent beneath the sheets.

Smoke had taken his time with her—his mouth pulling climax after climax from her trembling body until her thighs twitched and her voice cracked from moaning his name. She’d fallen asleep bare but glowing, her cheek against his chest for a while before she turned over, the satin ribbon loose at her throat.

He could still taste her.

But duty never slept.

Smoke rose quietly, dressing in the dark—black slacks, crisp shirt half-buttoned, holster strapped over his shoulders. He watched her a moment longer, watched her chest rise and fall, one hand curled against her lips like she was still dreaming of him.

Then he left.

The Blackline was still alive, even at this hour.

Downstairs, blues music played low and slow, the kind that dripped through the floorboards like molasses. Laughter echoed from the parlor. A few patrons lingered in the corners, their voices hushed, sticky with drink and desire.

Smoke moved through it like a shadow.

All smooth muscle and silence.

He pushed open the office door without knocking.

Inside, Peaches was straddled across Stack’s lap, laughing soft, her silk robe barely hanging on. She held a half-smoked cigar between two fingers and was tugging gently at Stack’s tie, whispering something that made him smirk.

“You always smell like trouble,” she said, brushing her lips near his cheek.

“Good,” Stack drawled, puffing smoke toward the ceiling, “Trouble’s my favorite sin.”

Then his eyes lifted.

“Alright, baby. Give us the room.”

Peaches pouted but obeyed, stretching as she slid off his lap—slow, teasing, soft thighs flashing in the lamplight.

“You boys and your whispers,” she teased, “I know you love me more than bullets.”

“We love you ‘cause you don’t ask questions,” Stack replied, deadpan.

Peaches giggled, kissed his jaw, and sauntered past Smoke on her way out.

The door clicked shut.

And the room shifted.

Smoke didn’t sit.

He stood by the desk, arms loose at his sides, jaw set.

“Talk to me.”

Stack stubbed out the cigar and leaned forward.

“Clyde got eyes on Felix. South end. He’s movin’ careful. Quiet.”

“Who with?”

“New muscle,” Stack said, “Mean. Doesn’t talk. One of ‘em had a blade longer than my forearm.”

He paused, serious now.

“He’s got a woman with him.”

Smoke’s gaze flicked sharp.

“What kind of woman?”

“Clyde don’t know. Said she didn’t feel right. Gave him chills. Said she looked like she could see through walls—like she already knew who he was.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

“Clyde ain’t the type to scare easy.”

“Exactly.”

“Mercy?”

“I sent word. Said she’s thinkin’ on it.”

Smoke scoffed, low.

“She better think fast.”

He moved to the window, looking out.

“You feel it?” he asked quietly, “That weight in the air?”

Stack nodded once.

“Something’s comin’. And it’s bringin’ things that don’t bleed easy.”

Mercy hadn’t sent word.

Not a letter. Not a whisper.

And that silence crawled under Smoke’s skin like a slow itch.

He didn’t like waiting.

Not when the weight of something unnatural pressed thicker in the air. Not when he knew a name but still didn’t have a face for the storm coming.

But the next night, he let himself focus on her.

Violet was working the main floor.

Moving through the velvet haze with a tray balanced on one hand and a shine in her step that hadn’t been there a week ago. She wore a soft, clinging dress the color of dusty wine—thin-strapped, low in the back, hugging her curves like silk poured over honey. Her ribbon was tied tight at her throat, but her shoulders?

Set back. Chin lifted.

He noticed it immediately.

The change.

The quiet confidence in the way she moved—no longer uncertain, no longer hiding. His shirt was gone, but the way she carried herself? Still wrapped in him.

And he watched.

From his corner, cigar in one hand, drink untouched.

Smoke didn’t just watch her—he tracked her.

Like a wolf waiting to be fed again. Every time she passed his table, he reached. Fingers on her wrist. A hand at the small of her back. Once, he pulled her in mid-step, leaned close enough that his lips brushed her ear.

“You keep walkin’ like that, I’m gon’ take you right here in front of everybody.”

Her breath caught. She kept walking.

Next time she came around? He hooked two fingers in her garter strap as she passed. Gave a slow tug.

“You lettin’ all these men see what’s mine?”

She turned her head. Eyes sparkling. Said nothing.

He grinned around his cigar.

Next time? He pulled her all the way down into his lap.

“You like servin’ drinks in this dress?” he whispered, one hand tracing up the inside of her thigh beneath the tray.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You look like temptation in velvet.”

He let her go.

Eventually.

But every time she returned? She was more sure. More fluid. And he could see it now—the beginning of her knowing what it meant to belong to him.

Stack watched it all from across the room with a slow shake of his head.

“You gonna teach her those lessons soon or you just gonna fuck her dumb one night and forget to explain?”

Smoke didn’t even turn.

“Lessons come after Mercy answers.”

“If Mercy answers.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“She will.”

His eyes followed Violet one more time as she disappeared behind a sheer curtain, laughter trailing after her like perfume.

“She has to.”

And she did.

The Blackline wasn’t quiet, but it had settled.

The girls were winding down from a steady run of patrons. Dishes clinked softly in the kitchen. Laughter hummed from a back hallway. Somewhere upstairs, a radio played low.

Smoke and Stack were still waiting on word.

It had been two days.

The air was thick with restlessness.

And then the door opened.

Mercy Dubois didn’t knock.

She never had.

Didn’t need to.

Her name opened doors just by being whispered.

She stepped through the front entrance like a storm dressed in satin—a tall, commanding Black woman in her early forties, with warm bronze skin and hair curled into perfect waves beneath a sculpted black hat pinned with a silk veil that didn’t dare touch her face. Her gloves were lace, her coat dark blue velvet, and her walk—

Slow. Measured. Like every step remembered something worth avenging.

A cigarette sat between her fingers, untouched, like she only held it to give her hands something soft while her mind stayed sharp.

The girls noticed her immediately.

Cordelia, cleaning glasses behind the bar, froze.

Peaches blinked, stood up straighter, smoothing her robe.

Odessa narrowed her eyes from across the room but said nothing.

Mercy gave none of them a glance.

She once worked the big houses in New Orleans and Chicago—headlined on cards where her name shone in gold beside men who thought they ran things. She’d seen the best of them fall. The worst of them burn. And when the glitz turned rough, when vaudeville gave way to bootleg bars and blood money, Mercy walked out in full light and built her own damn name.

Mercy ran Swansong.

A brothel-turned-salon on the far edge of Little Rock, carved out of an old French boarding house with wraparound porches and white-painted shutters. Men came for the company. Women came for protection. And Mercy kept them all safe.

Her rules were simple:

No sloppiness. No begging. No disrespect.

If you worked for Mercy, you dressed sharp, spoke clean, and walked like every room owed you something.

She entered Stack’s office without knocking.

The twins were already inside—Smoke seated near the window, Stack at the edge of his desk, his cigar halfway to ash.

Mercy didn’t sit.

Not yet.

She peeled off her gloves, finger by finger, then slipped her coat from her shoulders and laid it neatly across the back of the extra chair.

“I know who’s backin’ Booker.”

Both brothers stiffened.

“It’s Felix,” she said, “No doubt in my mind.”

“You sure?” Smoke asked, voice low.

“Seen his men near Booker’s spot twice this week. Too clean. Too quiet. That ain’t local muscle.”

Stack let out a slow breath.

“Goddamn.”

“I don’t got proof in hand,” she added, “But I will. Soon. Just wanted to look you both in the eye and say—watch your backs.”

She finally sat, crossed her legs, and reached for the bottle of bourbon on Stack’s shelf like she knew exactly where everything was.

“You pourin’, or should I?”

Stack cracked a smile and took the bottle from her.

“You want small or generous?”

“I came all this way, baby. Make it generous.”

He poured. She sipped. Then—

“How’s business been otherwise? You boys still runnin’ this place like a holy house for sinners?”

“Always,” Stack said, “And speakin’ of sin—Player’s Ball comin’ up.”

“You plannin’ to show face?” Mercy asked.

“Might,” Stack said, “If Smoke don’t tie me to a truck axle first.”

“Ain’t makin’ no promises,” Smoke muttered.

“Mm.” She smiled into her glass.

“We’ll be headin’ up to Chicago soon anyway,” Stack added, “Got a man from Vincenzo’s crew—said he’s got hardware. We want eyes on it.”

“Tommys?” Mercy asked.

“And then some.”

“Good,” she said, “You’ll need ‘em.”

Her tone shifted again—soft, but pointed.

“Whatever that woman is…I don’t like her scent. She don’t blink. She don’t breathe. And she don’t belong.”

“You find out what she is,” Smoke said, “you come straight to us.”

Mercy nodded once.

“I’ll bring you more once I know for sure. Until then—watch your backs. Both of you. Don’t trust shadows just ‘cause they been there a while.”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Mercy finished her bourbon and set the glass down neat.

Mercy stood, slipped her gloves back on with slow, practiced elegance.

No rush.

But no softness either.

She draped her velvet coat over one arm, gave each man a final look—eyes like polished glass, hard enough to reflect something you weren’t ready to face.

“You hear anything strange,” she said, “you don’t ignore it.”

“We won’t,” Stack replied.

She reached the door, paused, then added without turning…

“Some things don’t knock. They just walk in and make themselves at home.”

Then she left.

The door clicked behind her with a sound too final for comfort.

Smoke didn’t move right away.

Neither did Stack.

The silence between them was familiar—not heavy with fear, but with the sharp, quiet calculation of men who’d seen worse and lived to warn about it.

Stack reached for the bourbon, refilled his glass halfway.

“I don’t like it.”

“Me neither.”

“Mercy’s not one to stir shadows unless they move first.”

Smoke stood, paced once, then leaned against the far bookshelf.

“She’s seen somethin’ like this before. That’s what she ain’t sayin’ out loud.”

Stack nodded.

“You believe it?”

“I believe her.”

Stack took a drink, eyes narrowing toward the shut door.

“Felix don’t move like this unless he’s scared or greedy. And if he’s scared, it ain’t us he’s afraid of—it’s whoever’s whisperin’ in that woman’s ear.”

Smoke cracked his knuckles.

“That’s why we wait. Until Mercy brings us more.”

“And if she don’t?”

Smoke looked at him, quiet.

Still.

“Then we burn it down first.”

The morning sun cracked pale over the treeline, the dew still thick on the grass behind The Blackline. Stack stood near the back shed, flipping through a ledger while Clyde and two other men loaded crates onto the truck bed. Smoke stood nearby, sleeves rolled, a fresh cigarette tucked behind his ear, inspecting each crate before it hit the truck.

“He said Vincenzo’s man’ll meet us two days from now,” Stack said, eyes skimming the page. “Armory in the south loop. Quiet, but watched.”

“You trust the contact?” Smoke asked.

“Trust that he wants to get paid.”

Smoke lifted one crate—heavier than it looked—and slid it into the bed with a thud.

“That’ll do.”

Stack closed the book, tucked it under his arm.

“We leave before dawn. Get there, get what we need, get back. No delays.”

Smoke gave a sharp nod.

“Once we’re stocked, I want to rework how we’re coverin’ our south routes. If Felix is watchin’, we can’t keep movin’ weight the same way.”

“I’ll draw it up.”

They didn’t say much else.

Didn’t need to.

They’d moved like this since France.

When silence was safer than doubt, and a plan meant the difference between making it home or digging a shallow grave.

The house had gone quiet by the time The Blackline whined down again.

The crowd had thinned. Most of the girls were in their rooms, slipping out of rouge and into silence. The hallways smelled of rosewater and smoke, faint perfume still lingering in the velvet-draped corners.

Smoke walked with purpose.

Slow. Measured. Starved.

Not for sex.

For her.

He didn’t knock.

He never did.

Violet’s door opened to soft lamplight and stillness.

She sat at her vanity, brushing her hair—wearing nothing but a silk slip and that ribbon he’d tied tighter the night before.

She turned when he entered.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d come.”

“I told you I would.”

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, eyes dragging down her bare legs to where her toes curled against the rug.

“You ready?” he asked low.

“For what?”

“Your lessons.”

Her breath caught.

But she stood.

Smoke didn’t move toward her right away. He just stood there. Watching her. Taking in the curve of her in the low lamplight, the soft cling of her silk slip against her thighs, and the faint shimmer of nervous energy in her fingers as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

“Take a breath,” he said gently.

She did.

“Again.”

She did. He crossed the room slow—all presence, all gravity. And when he stopped in front of her, he lifted a hand and brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek.

“I ain’t here to hurt you, Violet.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“But I am gonna pull things out of you you’ve never said out loud before.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’m gonna teach you to use your voice. Not just moan, not just whimper—speak. Tell me what you want. What you feel. Where it burns.”

She nodded.

He tilted her chin up with a single finger.

“Words, little one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s better.”

He walked her back, step by step, until the backs of her knees hit the bed.

“Slip off your straps.”

Her fingers trembled as she obeyed, letting the thin silk slip down her arms. The fabric caught at her chest for a moment before it fell lower.

She moved to cover herself.

“Don’t,” He caught her wrists in one hand—gently, firmly, “You don’t need to hide from me. Ever.”

Her chest rose with a shaky inhale, her nipples already tightening in the cool air.

“Good,” he said, voice a little rougher now, “Now tell me—how do you feel? Right now.”

“Nervous,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

She blinked.

He waited.

“Say it.”

“My breasts…and lower. Between my thighs.”

“That’s good,” he said, soft and proud, “You doin’ good.”

He kissed her slowly, deeply, and lowered her onto the bed. But he didn’t rush. Tonight wasn’t about taking. It was about teaching her to give. And as he began to touch her—mouth on her neck, hand sliding beneath her slip—he whispered every step into her skin.

“You tell me when it’s too much. You tell me when you need more. And when I ask you somethin’…you don’t nod. You answer. Out loud. You understand?”

“Yes, sir…”

And with that?

The first lesson began.

Violet lowers her eyes instinctively.

“Nah. Look up.”

She does.

“You don’t get to be quiet when I’m giving you this much. You feel somethin’, you name it.”

She swallows, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. We gon’ start easy.”

His fingers gliding down to press gently between her thighs—over the silk, the pressure deliberate.

“Now tell me what that feel like.”

She gasps softly. Her hips twitch, “Warm,” she whispers, “It’s warm. Wet. Throbbing.”

“Where?”

She blushes, “My pussy.”

“Say it again.”

“My pussy.”

“And what it feel like right now?”

She closes her eyes, trembling, “Like it’s open. Needy. It keeps…pulsing.”

“Good girl,” he says, stroking her softly, “Now tell me what it feels like when I press here.”

His thumb applies pressure just above her clit, slow and unrelenting.

She whines, arching, “Tight. Like I’m about to lose it.”

“But you ain’t gon’ lose nothin’. You gon’ tell me everything.”

His fingers circle her now—smooth, consistent, gentle torment.

“Tell me how your nipples feel.”

She moans, voice cracking, “Hard. They’re tingling. I wanna touch ‘em so bad.”

“Do it.”

Her hands rise, trembling, to her breasts. She rolls her thumbs over her nipples and cries out softly.

“Now say what you feel.”

“I feel…full. I feel hot, sir. I feel…like I’m about to break.”

“Keep talking, baby. Stay with me.”

“It feels so deep—it won’t stop—I still feel it—I still feel you—I can’t hold it—I feel it building in my stomach—it’s crawling up—it’s—”

“You wanna cum?”

“Yes, sir. Please. Please let me.”

“Then say it.”

“I want to come for you. Please, I need to come, I can’t—I—”

“You may.”

She shatters—moaning his name, grinding against his hand, voice hoarse, body slick with sweat and satisfaction. But even as she comes, she keeps talking. Telling him how good it feels. Smoke doesn’t stop touching. He draws every ripple out of her, watching her chest heave, eyes flutter, lips part with trembling pleasure.

When it passes, she collapses forward, head on his shoulder, breath shaky.

He kisses her temple.

“That’s how a woman learns to love herself. By tellin’ a man who listens.”

She nods, dazed, glowing. She feels claimed—and powerful in it.

“You spoke so pretty, baby. I ain’t never heard nothin’ sweeter.”

He came for her again, the next evening. She was bare-footed and quiet, her ribbon tied neatly at her neck like she was offering herself in silence. Smoke didn’t speak right away. He just watched her. Let the weight of the day melt off both their shoulders. Then he stepped forward and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek.

“You sleep good today?”

She nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“That ache gone?”

She flushed, “Some. Still a little bit there.”

He grinned, slow and dark, “Good. I like you a little needy.”

He took her hand and led her to the bed—not to lie down, but to kneel, facing him. Her hands rested in her lap. Her shoulders tense.

“Tonight,” he said, “you gon’ learn how to stay in it. Not run from what you feel.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned down, brushed her lips with his thumb. Then, slowly, he began to undress her—not all the way. Just enough. Robe loose. Panties peeled down. Ribbon still on. He eased her back onto the bed and hovered over her. Their bodies didn’t press yet. Just breath and heat between them. His hand slid down again, finding her still slick, still soft. He touched her with precision—just enough to build pressure without release.

“You remember your lesson?”

She whimpered, “Yes, sir.”

“Then keep your eyes on mine.”

He began to move his fingers, slow and steady. Circling, pressing, stroking.

Her hips twitched, and her eyes fluttered shut.

“Ah—open,” he said.

She opened them. The effort it took to keep them there, on him, made her moan louder.

“You ain’t used to being seen like this, huh?”

She shook her head, breath catching, “No, sir.”

“You gon’ get used to it. ‘Cause I’m gon’ watch you fall apart every damn time.”

She bit her lip. Her legs were trembling.

“Don’t hide your face. Don’t look away. Let me see how pretty your pain is.”

She moaned, louder now—half broken, half in bliss.

Her hand gripped his wrist. Not to stop him. Just to anchor herself.

“Say what you feel.”

“I—it’s so much. I feel—full, sir. Full and empty.”

“Good girl. You hold onto me, I’ll hold you through it.”

His fingers never stopped. Her thighs began to shake harder. Her chest heaved.

And still, he held her gaze.

“You look so damn pretty when you obey,” he said, “Go on, baby. Let go.”

She came with a cry—eyes wide open, locked on his, tears falling down her temples from the sheer intensity of staying present.

Smoke leaned down and kissed her forehead. Then her lips. Then her neck—right at the base of the ribbon.

“You did perfect,” he whispered, “Didn’t hide once. That’s how you love a man with your eyes.”

She sobbed gently—not from sadness, but from the power of being held while falling.

Never spoken. Never scheduled. But every night, as the rooms dimmed and the music softened, Smoke would find her. Always in the same place. Violet’s alcove—a quiet little corner curtained off from the main parlor, where she could sit just beyond the haze of conversation and watch the house with wide, patient eyes.

Some nights she wore silk. Other nights, just the softness of one of his shirts. Her ribbon was always tied. Smoke would walk through the main room like he wasn’t looking for anything—but his eyes always found her. And the moment she felt him near, she’d straighten. Heart racing.

He never said much.

Just held out a hand.

And she always took it.

No hesitation.

No question.

Just trust.

He would lead her through the halls like he owned them.

Like he owned her.

Fingertips brushing her wrist, his grip warm but firm. Sometimes he’d whisper to her on the way to her room—filthy things, low and slow, that made her knees weak before they’d even crossed the threshold.

“You been good today?”

“You ready to learn somethin’ new for me?”

“No, baby. That ain’t how we talk no more. You know so. Or you don’t.”

“I ain’t gonna ask twice tonight, little one. Use your words.”

“Say it better.”

She would falter.

“Go on. Be a good girl. Say it for me.”

She closed her eyes. Swallowed. Then whispered...

“My pussy hurts.”

Smoke’s breath hitched. He stepped back around to face her, dark gaze locked on hers.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he said, low and full of pride. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with sayin’ it. That’s yours. You tell me what it needs, and I’ll listen.”

Every night, a new lesson.

A new command.

A new part of herself pulled gently into the light.

No one asked where they went.

But the girls noticed.

Cordelia smiled more when Violet passed by, a quiet knowing in her gaze.

Peaches offered her tea in the morning and called her “baby girl” with a different tone.

Odessa? Said nothing.

But her stare grew colder.

And Violet?

Violet began to move through the house differently.

Shoulders lifted.

Eyes clear.

She was learning.

And Smoke?

He was teaching her with patience, with precision—and with possession stitched into every soft command.

It got filthier.

The tension rolled off him like heat off asphalt, silent and searing. Jaw locked tight. Shoulders drawn like bowstrings. Every move precise, like he was holding something in. And he was.

His fucking dick.

Big and angry, twitching behind his slacks from the moment the sun broke through the windows each morning to the hush that settled when doors were locked and the house quieted down. It throbbed when he glanced at Felix’s name scribbled in ledgers. When Stack whispered that the guns up in Chicago would arrive late. When Violet passed him a glass of water and her fingers brushed his.

By now, Violet knew the signs. She could read him in a room full of noise—could feel the moment his eyes locked on her like a fuse had lit in his belly. Her own thighs clenched when his voice dipped lower than usual. When his hand brushed the small of her back. When he leaned down, murmuring praise like “good girl” after she walked by in a new slip.

She knew what he needed before he said a word.

Tonight, he didn’t knock.

He opened her door and stepped in slow, jaw flexing. His shirt was half-buttoned, sleeves rolled high, forearms dusted with dirt from the day’s work. His slacks rode low on his hips, and she could see it—the thick length of him bulging, strained, outlined and unmerciful. He didn’t speak. Just looked at her. His breath came through his nose, heavy. Controlled.

Violet rose to her knees on the bed in nothing but a silk chemise, eyes soft and knowing.

“You need it bad, don’t you?” She spoke softly, fidgeting.

Smoke’s jaw ticked. His chest rose and fell once. Then again.

“I’ve been walkin’ ‘round damn near crippled with this dick hard, baby,” he ground out, “Can’t think straight. Can’t sleep. Ain’t even safe to sit down long without it hurtin’.”

Her lips parted, breath catching.

“I—can I help?”

“You gon’ do more than help. Lay back for me.”

Smoke’s voice was low, thick like molasses poured over fire. Violet paused at the edge of the bed, breath caught, heart thudding in her chest.

She knew that tone.

Shirt unbuttoned, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, cigar half-burned in his mouth. But his eyes were already on her like a predator who didn’t need to pounce to consume. Violet eased back onto the mattress, her body bare now, glowing in the amber light of the room.

“Legs open,” Smoke said, stepping closer, his voice barely above a whisper, “Wider. Come on, baby. I want to see all that pretty mess you been hidin’ all damn day while Daddy been busy.”

She obeyed. Slowly, achingly, she spread her thighs—then bent her knees up and held herself open, fingers trembling as they sank into the softness at the crease of her thighs, keeping her pussy bared for him.

And Smoke groaned.

“God…damn,” he breathed, “You don’t even know what you do to me layin’ like this.”

He sank into the chair at the foot of the bed, legs spread, elbows on his knees, just staring.

“Look at you,” he rasped, “Pussy swollen, glistenin’ like you already came three times. That’s for me, huh? You got this wet just knowin’ I was gon’ look at it?”

Violet’s breath hitched. She nodded, cheeks hot, chest rising in fast little pulls.

“Open it a little more, baby. Let me see that hole.”

She spread her fingers, exposing herself fully, and Smoke growled low—an animal sound, deep in his chest.

“There it is. Fuck. Look at that little pussy. Look how pink she is. Drippin’ for me already.”

He stroked himself over his trousers, slow and deliberate, just watching. Dick jumping. Tip sticky. Balls tight.

“Don’t touch it,” he said when her fingers twitched toward her clit, “Not yet. Just hold it open. Let daddy talk to it a while.”

Violet whimpered, thighs shaking with restraint.

“You got the kinda pussy a man lose his whole fuckin’ mind over. I swear. Look at it—all soft, pouty, wet. You leakin’, baby. You know that?”

She bit her lip hard, eyes wide.

“I can see your little hole twitchin’. She want me, don’t she? Want this tongue, this pole, this mouth tellin’ her she mine. Don’t she?” Smoke gripped his girth, “don’t she?”

Smoke leaned forward, eyes locked on the slick between her folds.

“Bet if I spit on it, she’d suck it in like a good girl. Bet if I kissed her, she’d come just from that.”

She whimpered, hips lifting.

“Nah, keep still. I ain’t touched you yet. You just lay there and let me look.”

A bead of slick slipped down from her center to her hole, and Smoke licked his lips.

“Fuck, baby. You keep showin’ me this, I’ma end up down there all night. Tongue in your ass, mouth on your clit, fingers buried so deep you forget your own name.”

She trembled—wide open, drenched, the air thick with heat.

Smoke stood finally, towering over the bed now, gaze dark and heavy.

“You ready for me to ruin it?” he asked, undoing his belt with slow, measured fingers, “Or you want me to keep talkin’ to it ‘til she comes from nothin’?”

Violet whispered, breathless, “Both.”

Smoke smirked, tossed his belt to the side.

“That’s my girl.”

It was late.

The kind of hush that wrapped the house in velvet, the walls breathing slow like they knew what was about to happen. Smoke stood in front of Violet’s bed, hand at his crotch. He hadn’t for a minute—just watched her. Stroked up her thighs. Held her face in his palm like it was something sacred. And now, he looked like a man at the edge.

“I can’t do it no more,” he whispered, voice rough and low, like he’d been biting it back for days, “I been tryin’, baby. Lord knows I have.”

Violet’s breath hitched. She sat up, hair mussed, lips flushed from his earlier kisses. Her thighs still trembled faintly from the last time he’d dropped to his knees and fed from her like a starving man.

He’d already undid his belt slow. Now it’s the button. Eyes still on her.

Her heart galloped.

“I’ve been keepin’ my big boy in,” he said, jaw clenching, eyes dropping to his waistband, “Tryin’ to be gentle. Tryin’ not to scare you. But I can’t keep it caged. It’s hurtin’, baby. Feel like it’s got its own heartbeat.”

He unzipped.

Her mouth parted, but no sound came out.

Then—

He pulled it free.

It slapped up, thick and heavy, the head flushed and angry, the shaft veined and dark. It hung long, proud, weighty like it had been straining behind his slacks for days—and it had.

Violet gasped. Loud.

She’d never seen one in real life before. Not like this.

Not this big.

Not this pretty.

Smoke watched her face closely, “You alright?” he asked, voice husky, “Ain’t too much for you?”

She blinked, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “It’s…big.”

A slow, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, “Mhm. That’s why I been takin’ my time. Letting you get used to everything else first. This boy?” He gave himself a lazy stroke and exhaled low, “He’s greedy. He don’t know how to be sweet.”

Her eyes stayed locked on it—wide, transfixed. She wet her lips, then looked up at him.

“Can I…touch it?”

His breath caught.

“Shit, baby,” he muttered, stepping closer, “Please. Been needin’ your hands on me so bad, I almost fucked my own palm last night just thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

She reached out tentative, like she was approaching something holy. Her fingers brushed the base, then slid up. It jumped in her hand.

“God, it’s hot,” she whispered, “And heavy…”

Smoke groaned—deep, guttural.

“I told you,” he said through grit teeth, one hand clenching at his thigh, “He ain’t used to bein’ out this long without gettin’ fed.”

Violet glanced up again, her voice barely a whisper.

“…Then maybe you should teach me how.”

And with that, Smoke knew—he wasn’t gonna make it much longer. He’d tried to be patient. Tried to hold the line.

But his big boy was out now.

And he wasn’t going back in.

“Lay back,” Smoke said, voice velvet-wrapped gravel, “Open wide for me, baby. I wanna see everything while you touch me.”

Violet obeyed, cheeks flushed, breath shallow. She laid back on her elbow, legs parting slowly. She was bare amd open wide for him—soft, slick, aching. Smoke’s eyes dropped instantly, darkening as they landed between her legs.

“Good girl,” he rasped, “Look at that pretty pussy. Always so wet when I’m near, huh? She know who I am.”

He knelt beside the bed, his fat, veiny dick out, heavy and thick in her hand. One slow stroke, and his breath hitched.

“Been dreamin’ about slidin’ into you,” he spoke softly but with hunger, eyes never leaving her center, “But I ain’t gonna rush. Nah…I’m gon’ take my sweet fuckin’ time molding this big boy in you, makin’ sure you feel every inch stretch real slow until your little pussy don’t know what hit her.”

Violet whimpered, thighs twitching.

His gaze flicked up, “Now look at me while you touch it.”

She sat up closer, reaching for him again. Her small hand wrapped around the thick base of him, warm and trembling. His dick jumped in her grip, and a hiss slid through his teeth.

“Yeah,” he groaned, “That’s it. Hold him like you mean it.”

Violet began to explore—fingers gentle, tracing the thick veins, sliding over the soft skin of the shaft, pausing at the swollen head. She watched his face as she did—watched how his jaw clenched, his eyes fluttered closed for just a breath, then snapped back open to look at her.

He was beautiful like this.

Eyes dark and hungry. Lips parted. Brows furrowed like he was barely keeping it together. That scar at his temple twitched. His breath came in slow, shaky draws like he was on a leash he wanted to snap.

“Look how good you make me feel. You feel how hard I am, baby? That’s for you. That’s what happens when I smell you walk past. When I see you lickin’ honey off your fingers in the kitchen. You been teasin’ me and don’t even know it.”

She smiled shyly, still stroking him. His dick twitched again, precum beading at the tip. Smoke let his eyes drag down her body again, hungry, possessive. He leaned one arm between her soft thighs and tapped her pussy lips. Wet, gushy noises echoed. Violet nibbled on the corner of her pouty, bottom lip. Smoke groaned deep.

“You hear that?” he said, nodding toward her thighs, “That little pussy talkin’. She’s cryin’ for me. So pretty and open. I’m gon’ make her mine. Gonna ease it in till you feel full, then stop. Let you sit on it. Let you feel me throb inside. Let you cry a little.”

Violet whimpered, thighs squeezing around nothing.

“Y-you make my whole body ache.” She spoke soft and angelic.

“I better,” he growled, “You think I been walkin’ ‘round with this fat dick all day just itchin’ for a breeze? Nah, baby. I been savin’ it. Savin’ it for you. And when you ready?”

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

“I’ma fuck you slow…so slow, sugar. Gon’ ruin every other man before they even get a chance to dream ‘bout you. You’ll be so used to this dick you won’t know how to walk without it.”

Her hand tightened.

His breath caught.

Their eyes locked—hers wide and adoring, his blown with hunger.

“Smoke…” she whispered.

“Say it again.”

“Smoke.”

He groaned, deep and guttural.

“I’m gon’ give it to you, baby. But not tonight. Tonight, I want you to know what you beggin’ for.”

And she did.

Because every inch of him in her hand, every filthy word in her ear, every twitch of his cock as she touched it—that was a promise.

And Violet had never wanted anything more.

Smoke sat at the edge of the bed now, thighs spread, his big dick heavy in Violet’s hand, glistening at the tip. She looked up at him through her lashes, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like she’d run a mile barefoot through a thunderstorm. He reached for her with one hand, the other resting behind him, steadying himself. His fingers found her slick heat with no hesitation—warm, wet, and already throbbing for him.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice hoarse with need, “Keep your hand wrapped around it like that. Now use your other to stroke the top…slow…yeah, like that. Slide that little thumb over the head.”

Violet did as he said, nervous but eager, fingers trembling. He groaned low—real low—like it had been pulled from deep inside his chest. His cock twitched in her grip.

“That’s it, baby,” he breathed, stroking her folds tentatively, “Don’t be scared of it. Grip it like you own it.”

She squeezed gently, wrist twisting just like he taught her.

“Shit,” he hissed, “That’s good. You feel how he jumps for you? That means he like it. Now slide your hand down the base—slow—and come back up. Like you mean to drain me.”

Her thighs trembled. Her pussy clenched around nothing. And Smoke felt it. His fingers slid through her folds, two teasing at her entrance, the pad of his thumb circling her clit with firm, knowing pressure.

“Mmhm, yeah. Look at this little cunt,” he muttered, eyes locked where his fingers played, “She loves watchin’ you stroke my dick, huh? She throbbin’. Can’t even sit still.”

She moaned, soft and gasping, and her hand jerked on him. He caught her chin with his clean hand, tilting her face toward his.

“Easy, baby. Don’t rush. Feel me. Watch what your hands do to me. This dick yours—ain’t nobody else ever made me this fuckin’ hard.”

She blinked, stunned, lips quivering.

“You…you mean that?”

“Look at my face,” he growled, “You see me lyin’? This dick been damn near hurting since the day you walked in that door. Now go on…stroke it just how I showed you.”

Violet resumed the rhythm—one hand tight, the other playing at the tip. Her movements were more confident now, guided by his breath, by the way his chest rose and fell faster. Smoke’s fingers slid deeper inside her—two now, slow and stretching.

“That’s it,” he muttered, “Take me in, nice and easy. Gotta get you ready. Ain’t no way this tight little pussy’s takin’ all of me unless I work you open real slow.”

Her hips rolled against his hand as she pumped him. He pressed a kiss to her temple, then her jaw.

“You makin’ me feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Can’t wait to come home to this. Sit back, let you touch me just like this…let you ride my fingers while you stroke my pole. Teach you all the ways to make a man lose his fuckin’ mind.”

She whimpered, clutching him tighter.

“Smoke, I—I’m close.”

He grinned against her ear, voice dark with heat.

“Then cum for me while you still strokin’ my dick. Show me what it does to you…watch me watch you fall apart.”

And with his fingers curling just right, his voice in her ear, and the thick weight of him twitching in her hand, Violet did. Her cry was soft but shaking. Her body trembled as pleasure washed through her like floodwater breaking loose.

Smoke didn’t stop. He just held her.

Stroked her through it.

Let her hand rest on him even while she shivered in his lap—because this was just the beginning. She’d touched him now. Seen him. Felt him throb for her. Smoke’s breath was ragged now. His thighs tensed, his hips barely jerking into her touch as he tried to hold on—but he was close. So close. Violet’s hand was slick with him, working the shaft with a rhythm he’d shown her, her smaller palm sliding over his dick with trembling confidence.

“Just like that, pretty baby,” he gritted, voice almost desperate, “Fuck…just like that. You gon’ make me cum.”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t blink. She wanted to see him lose control.

Smoke’s head fell back, jaw tight, chest rising in sharp pulls. His hips flexed and his hand—still between her thighs—slowed just slightly, overwhelmed by the feeling building in him like a breaking dam.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, “I ain’t cum for nobody like this. You—you got me gone…”

Then it hit. His body snapped forward like the air had been punched from his lungs. His dick jerked violently in her grip—and then he spilled. A thick, hot rope of cum shot out, splattering across her fingers, her wrist, her thigh. Another followed. And another.

Violet gasped, stunned.

There was so much.

His cum painted her skin, dripping in slow, milky trails down the inside of her arm. Her breath hitched as she stared—lips parted, eyes wide. It was messy, primal, intimate. He was still twitching in her hand, still panting, still softening slow, his hips flexing in aftershocks.

“Lord…” she whispered.

Smoke opened his eyes halfway, still caught in the haze of release.

Then he said it.

Soft. Barely a whisper.

“Lula-Bee…”

Her whole body shivered.

It wasn’t just her nickname.

It was her real one. The name her grandmother whispered into her hair as a child. The name that hadn’t passed another person’s lips since—

She looked up at him, eyes suddenly glassy, “How—How did you do—?”

He blinked slow, dazed, “It came out. Like it was pulled from the bottom of me. You feel like home, sugar… somethin’ older than this life.”

Her heart thudded like a drum in a deep forest. She looked down again, at the mess he’d made across her hand. Curious. Intrigued. Tentatively, she brought two fingers to her mouth and tasted. Salty. Warm. Faintly bitter. But more than that—his.

Smoke watched her, eyes dark with awe and disbelief, still riding the last waves of pleasure.

“Shit, you tryna kill me, baby?”

She licked her lips, shy but glowing, “I just wanted to know what you tasted like.”

He groaned again, his hand reaching to cup her face, thumb dragging over her lips, “Next time,” he murmured, still breathless, “you gon’ take wit’ your sweet mouth. Feel me come down your throat while you whimper on my tongue.”

Her cheeks burned—but she didn’t look away.

[thewheelofrp]

The brothers glance at each other before looking back at him. They hadn’t been a part of the supernatural world for very long but their skill for business and their natural charms would prove useful in their new un-life. The stoic one, Elijah, spoke up first. “Are we makin’ are deals with you? Something tells me you’re not the one making the calls around here. Does your boss have an opening offer? Or would you like to hear what we have to bring to the table?”

They looked displeased, Michael already knew that the situation was going to be tense. Getting the girls to agree to anything that these gentlemen were proposing was going to be a task. But Annabelle wanted longevity for the coven and this was the way they were going to get it without getting pushed out by others.  Michael looked forward to the prospective meeting, others like them.

Little did he know what the other coven might do once they discovered him. “Of course. Any agreement that we can come to I think will benefit all of us. My apologies the matriarch wanted me to come alone. If these stocks go, as well as I hope she will likely join me in the next one.” His speech was half rehearsed, Annabel had a script she wanted all of them to run by.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Velvet Heat & Country Sin

Summary: In the thick Mississippi heat of the 1920s, identical twins Elijah “Smoke” Moore and Elias “Stack” Moore return home from war—ragged, restless, and searching for something steady. Promised opportunities have dried up, and the only offer worth taking comes from August Langston, a wealthy Black ranch owner and old friend of their father’s. August gives the boys work and a place to sleep on his sprawling land just outside Clarksdale.

But what neither twin expects is Delphine Langston.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT (Age gap, threesome, intense masturbation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, hyper sexuality, cheating, oral fixation, dirty talk, domination, teasing, rough sex, degradation, mirror kink, violence)

Part One

The road stretched ahead like a dried tongue, cracked with heat and caked with dust. Nothing moved but the occasional vulture overhead and the slow roll of their truck’s wheels grinding over gravel. The air was thick, syrup-thick, and even the wind seemed tired.

Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore sat behind the wheel, jaw clenched tight as the steering wheel in his grip. He hadn’t said much in over two hours—not since they passed the gas station where that white boy stared too long and spit in their direction. Stack almost got out the truck, but Smoke told him no. Not today. Not for that.

Beside him, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore leaned back, boots kicked up on the dashboard, hat pulled low over his eyes. He chewed a sliver of sugarcane between his teeth, but the sweetness didn’t touch his face. He looked asleep, but he wasn’t. Stack never slept while Smoke was driving. Never trusted a road that ran too quiet.

They both wore old army trousers and threadbare shirts that clung to their backs with sweat. Neither had shaved in days. The war had ended two years ago, but it still sat in their bones like an echo—especially in Smoke, whose hands still trembled sometimes when he wasn’t paying attention.

“We close?” Stack finally spoke, voice low and rough like gravel soaked in whiskey.

Smoke nodded once, eyes fixed on the sign just ahead

Langston Ranch – Visitors Welcome By Invitation Only

Private Property. No Trespassing.

“You think this man gon’ really help us?” Stack asked, sitting up and pulling his hat back, “Or just pat our heads and send us on to pick cotton like the rest?”

“He knew our Daddy,” Smoke said flatly, “Owes him somethin’. Said he got work. We’ll see.”

They hadn’t wanted to return to the Delta. Not like this. They’d left boys and came back changed—men made of wire and war, fists quick and tempers quicker. The government promised land, work, dignity. They got none of it. Just stares. Just silence. Just heat.

Still, Mississippi was home. And Clarksdale… Clarksdale held ghosts they hadn’t faced yet. Smoke had kept that quiet, but Stack knew. They always knew each other’s truths, even unspoken.

The road curved, and then they saw it.

A stretch of land that looked like it could swallow the sun. Cotton fields long retired, now golden with overgrown grass. Fences well-kept. A distant herd of cattle lowing under the blaze. A cluster of pecan trees in the distance. A wide barn the color of clay. And in the center of it all, perched atop a slight rise like it ruled the whole world, was a whitewashed house with a deep wraparound porch and two shadows standing still beneath it.

Smoke cut the engine. The truck sputtered to silence.

“That him?” Stack asked, hopping out of the passenger side and rolling his shoulders.

“Only one way to find out.”

Smoke stepped out slowly, dust curling around his boots. The Mississippi sun hit his back like a memory he didn’t ask for. He looked up at the house. The man on the porch stepped forward. Mid-fifties, built strong, skin dark and proud, with silver dusting his beard. Wide-brimmed hat. Suspenders. A presence like a mountain that wouldn’t move for nobody.

“Elijah. Elias,” the man called down. His voice carried without shouting, “Ain’t seen y’all since you were barely up to my hip.”

Stack smiled first. Smoke just nodded.

“Mr. Langston,” Smoke said, “Appreciate you takin’ us in.”

August Langston gave a small smile, more respectful than warm. The kind men used when they remembered burying too many good people.

“Y’all’ll earn your keep. This ain’t charity. But I meant what I said in the letter—I knew your father. Owed him my life once. Time to pay it back.”

He stepped aside, motioning them up the steps.

“Come on in. I’ll show you to the bunkhouse. Come meet the heart of it. My wife’s inside gettin’ supper ready.”

Stack’s smirk faltered.

Smoke’s eyes shifted to the doorway.

And that’s when they saw her.

August gestured toward the house with a slight cant of his head.

And then he turned.

And she stepped out.

Delphine Langston.

She moved through the doorway like light pouring through gauze—soft, slow, but certain. She wore a pale green dress with a collar just loose enough to show the hollow of her throat, sleeves cuffed above the elbow. Her skin held the glow of someone who’d been in the sun, but not too long. Barefoot on the porch planks. A gold bangle on one wrist, hair gathered in a soft knot low on her neck.

She stood behind August as he spoke, but her eyes were already on them—open, unreadable, and quiet like a hush in church.

“This here’s my wife,” August said, “Delphine.”

“Well,” she said, voice dripping slow and warm as honey in a skillet, “Y’all must be the Moore boys. It’s Elijah and Elias, isn’t it?”

Smoke tipped his head, words caught in his mouth. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not right away.

Stack cleared his throat gently, smiling as he stepped forward.

“Ma’am.”

“Miss Delphine,” she corrected softly, “But only if you plan to stay polite.”

Her voice was like water drawn from a well—cool and full-bodied, something that settled deep and lingered sweet at the edges.

She smiled then, not too wide, not too coy.

Just enough.

Stack nodded.

Delphine’s gaze moved between them, slow and searching—not cold. Just curious in a way that made the air thicken.

“Well,” she said, folding her hands loosely in front of her. “House gets a little quieter with company. Hope y’all don’t mind the sound of your own footsteps.”

“We don’t,” Smoke said, eyes still on her.

She was a silhouette in the frame, sunlight curling around her like a halo. Barefoot, hips high, house dress clinging to her curves like it knew every inch of her. A breeze teased the hem, lifted it just enough to show thigh. Her hand rested lazy on the doorframe, but her eyes…her eyes were awake.

Smoke’s mouth went dry.

Stack forgot how to breathe.

August Langston led the twins down the steps, the sun pressing down harder with each footfall. His stride was steady, boots crunching on dry gravel, and his words were few—measured like a man who didn’t waste air or kindness unless it counted.

“You’ll rise with the sun. Feed, clean, ride. Cattle mostly, some horses. I run a tight place. No slackers. No late mouths at the table.”

“Yes, sir,” Stack said with a smirk, rubbing the back of his neck.

Smoke only nodded, eyes flicking back toward the house—toward her.

Delphine hadn’t said another word after that first molten greeting. But she didn’t have to. She’d lingered in the doorway just long enough to feel like a dream—and then disappeared into the shadows of her home. But Smoke felt her. Like a hand still resting on his chest.

August pointed across the fields.

“Over there’s the retired cotton fields. We let ‘em rest a few years back. Still good land, but we focus on cattle now.”

“That’s a lotta land to work,” Stack noted.

“More than two hands can manage,” August said, “But I trust y’all.”

“We ain’t afraid of sweat,” Smoke said low, jaw set.

August nodded once, then gestured ahead, “Bunkhouse’s past that split fence. You’ll have it to yourselves for now. Supper’s at six. Delphine don’t like late men.”

Smoke heard the way he said her name—casual, but faintly possessive. As if he knew what she stirred just by standing still.

“She always cook like that?” Stack asked under his breath once August was a few paces ahead.

“Don’t start,” Smoke muttered.

But he looked again. Couldn’t help it.

Behind them, lace curtains fluttered.

She was watching.

The bunkhouse sat warm and sun-bleached, the wood gray from years of heat and memory. Inside, it was simple, two cots, a basin, a cracked mirror, a shared dresser with dents in the drawers. A breeze slipped through the screen window, not enough to fight the sweat pooling in their shirts.

Stack dropped his bag on the cot nearest the window.

“Ain’t bad,” he said, sitting down, legs spread, “I’ve laid my head on worse.”

Smoke stood still in the doorway, letting the dust settle around his boots. He could still feel her—Delphine—in his chest. Like he’d breathed her in without meaning to.

“You see the way she looked at us?” Stack asked, tossing his hat onto the dresser, “Like we were somethin’ sweet she wasn’t supposed to want.”

“You already thinkin’ wrong,” Smoke said flatly.

“Hell, I ain’t even touched her.” Stack said.

“Don’t plan on it either.”

Stack turned toward him, brows raised, “You didn’t feel that?”

Smoke didn’t answer. Just sat on the edge of his own cot and pulled off his boots slow, one by one.

“She’s married,” he finally said, low and sharp.

“So’s temptation,” Stack replied with a grin, “Still shows up uninvited.”

They didn’t speak for a minute.

A fly buzzed somewhere near the rafters.

The silence stretched. Long and heavy. Full of things neither of them could name yet.

Then Smoke leaned back, closed his eyes, and whispered, more to himself than to Stack.

“That woman gon’ burn us down.”

Two Years Earlier. 1919

Winter. Chicago

The city didn’t sleep right. Smoke could never rest with all that noise—the screech of trolleys, the grind of alley fights, the cold that bit through wool like it was personal.

They’d come to Chicago after the war. Promised jobs. Land. Dignity. A new world.

What they got was cold soup, calloused white hands pointing to the back door, and too many “no vacancies.” Stack worked a factory line for two months until the foreman told him to go back where he came from. Smoke boxed underground for money. Once killed a man with one punch. They never let him fight again.

Stack remembered that night. The blood. The silence. Smoke’s knuckles split open like scripture.

“You okay?” Stack asked, kneeling beside him.

“That ain’t what I wanted,” Smoke whispered, “Just wanted to be seen.”

They left the city after that.

Took what little money they had, rode freight trains and backroads all the way south. Too proud to beg. Too angry to break.

And now…now they stood on land their father once touched. Answering the call of a man who owed him something. But what neither of them knew—what no voice had warned—was that the real test wasn’t work. It wasn’t survival.

It was her.

Delphine Langston.

Standing behind lace.

Wearing sunlight like perfume.

And stirring a hunger they’d never had a name for.

The dining room smelled of smoked ham and sweet bread, peach glaze and fresh rosemary. The table was long, hand-carved mahogany, with a cream linen runner and pressed napkins folded just so. There were only four chairs. And only one woman who made the air feel tight.

Delphine Langston was already seated when the twins walked in. She wore soft blue tonight—a house dress, but fitted just enough to suggest something beneath it worth wanting. Her hair was pinned loose at the nape, one curl tumbling near her collarbone like it was daring a man to follow it with his mouth.

“There they are,” she said, smiling slow as honey off the spoon, “I hope y’all brought your appetites. I do like feedin’ men with manners.”

Stack cleared his throat and tugged at his shirt collar like it suddenly didn’t fit.

Smoke said nothing, but his eyes dipped once to her neckline. He forced them back up before August could notice.

“You boys sit,” August said, nodding to the chairs across from him, “Delphine, you done outdid yourself.”

“I do try,” she spoke, slicing a honey-drizzled ham and passing the platter down. Her fingers brushed Stack’s as she handed him the tongs—just for a breath, just enough to feel.

The table was filled with food. Candied yams, biscuits soft as air, collard greens with smoked turkey, pecan cornbread that steamed when broken.

“Eat,” she said, smiling at Smoke now, “Ain’t nothin’ cold here but the tea.”

That voice—sweet, low, warm at the edges—hit him somewhere behind the ribs. He picked up his fork but didn’t speak.

August started in with ranch talk. Branding schedules, feed orders, the next week’s work. But Smoke only caught half of it. His eyes kept flicking back to Delphine’s hands—how she cut her greens slowly, how her lips closed softly around her tea glass. She didn’t touch her food much. She watched them eat.

“You two are quiet,” she said, amusement in her voice, “You always that quiet? Or just around women who use too much butter?”

“You don’t use too much,” Stack said before he could think, “You use it right.”

Delphine’s smile turned sharp and wicked, though her tone remained pure sugar.

“Well now. You keep talkin’ like that and I might start feedin’ you separate from your brother.”

August chuckled, not catching the undertone. Smoke did. His jaw flexed tight, eyes dropping to his plate like it might save him.

Delphine rose to fetch another pitcher of tea. When she passed behind them, both twins turned slightly, drawn to the soft swish of her dress and the scent of rosewater and cinnamon clinging to her skin.

“She’s gonna be a problem,” Smoke muttered once August excused himself to get his pipe from the parlor.

“The best kind,” Stack said, already looking toward the door she disappeared behind.

The scent of warm yams, cinnamon, and sweet cornbread still lingered in the kitchen, though the plates were scraped clean and the men had gone quiet. August was out on the veranda with his pipe, tapping the bowl against the railing and staring out at the pasture like it held answers.

Delphine stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up, her hands submerged in warm, sudsy water. Her hips rocked in a slow rhythm as she washed one dish at a time—not rushed, not idle. Just enough motion to keep from thinking too hard.

She heard the door creak.

Footsteps. Hesitant.

She didn’t turn around.

“Ma’am—Miss Delphine?” a voice said, deep and careful, “You need a hand with that?”

A second voice followed—lighter, smoother, with a flick of charm in it.

“Ain’t right letting you do all that alone.”

She smiled to herself before answering. That kind of sweetness didn’t come from manners. It came from curiosity.

“That so?” she said, still facing the sink, “Y’all done eaten my food and now want to see how I clean up after it?”

“We figured we could help.”

She turned then, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she looked at them.

Both standing just inside the threshold. Both tall, built from sweat and war. One had his arms crossed. The other had his hands in his pockets. They looked the same but held themselves different. She’d been watching—quietly cataloguing.

She tilted her head.

“Now which one of y’all is Elijah, and which one is Elias?”

They glanced at each other—brief, silent.

“I been married to a man fifteen years and I still get surprised by his moods. Twins? Lord, I don’t stand a chance.”

“I’m Elijah,” the quieter one said, “Folks call me Smoke.”

“Stack,” said the other, a grin teasing the corner of his mouth, “Though Mama named me Elias.”

Delphine gave a soft laugh, the kind that stayed low in her throat and curled sweet at the end.

“Smoke and Stack,” she repeated, pointing slowly between them, “What kind of names are those?”

“Earned,” Smoke said.

Stack winked, “Sticky names for dirty work.”

Delphine turned back to the sink before they could see her amusement. She didn’t like feeding men too much pride too quick. Not even the beautiful ones.

“Well,” she said lightly, rinsing a plate, “Y’all feel free to dry if your hands work.”

They didn’t move at first. Just stood there, watching her body shift with the soft sway of her cleaning, the rise and dip of her back beneath the cotton, the curl of her neck as she leaned.

She felt their eyes like a second heat.

“You ever met twins before?” Stack asked after a moment.

“Once,” she replied, drying her hands now, “Back when I was still singin’. Danced with one, flirted with the other. Got in trouble with both.”

She didn’t look back, but she heard the breath one of them sucked in.

She turned, holding a dish towel out.

“Here,” she said, “Dry, then go. A woman can only take so many eyes before she start wonderin’ if they mean to watch or take somethin’.”

Neither of them spoke.

But they both took a plate.

And she smiled.

Because she knew the look in a man’s eye when he lingers.

The bunkhouse was hot that night. The kind of thick heat that made sweat pool behind the knees and dreams come too slow. Stack kicked off his sheet and rose with a grunt, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He needed to piss and cool off. Maybe splash some water on his neck and shake the itch crawling under his skin.

He stepped outside barefoot, the grass damp and cool beneath his soles. The moon was high—full, round, bright enough to make everything silver.

He walked behind the bunkhouse, and that’s when he saw her.

Delphine.

Standing barefoot in her garden beneath the moonflowers, in nothing but a thin cotton nightgown and a silk robe tied loosely at the waist. Her hair was down, wild around her shoulders. She moved slowly, running her fingers over the petals, humming something low under her breath.

She looked like a ghost in the dark. A ghost with hips. Stack stayed still in the shadow, heart hammering too loud in his ears.

She picked a jasmine bloom, lifted it to her nose, and smiled.

Then—she looked up.

Straight at him.

He didn’t know if she’d heard his breath or just felt him. But her eyes locked with his like a slow trap, like she already knew what part of him was burning.

She didn’t speak. Just raised one hand… and let her robe slip down her shoulder, baring one honeyed arm and the soft curve beneath it.

Then she turned, slow, and disappeared into the house.

Stack stood there, jaw tight, eyes dark, his need sharp and sudden as a switchblade.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

She was going to ruin him.

And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

Smoke couldn’t sleep. He lay on the cot, one arm behind his head, eyes open to the ceiling, his other hand draped over his chest. The fan above them creaked in lazy circles, stirring nothing.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under.

And when it did, it took him somewhere warm.

He dreamed of magnolias.

Not the flowers—but the scent. Sweet, sultry, with a sharp edge beneath it like rain on hot dirt. He stood in the garden, the night air thick around him. And she was there.

Delphine.

Wearing white. Not a dress. Not a nightgown. Just… white. Like mist wrapped in silk. She stood by the pecan tree, lips parted, one bare foot raised slightly off the earth like she didn’t quite belong to it.

“You gonna come closer?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. He just walked to her.

When he reached her, she didn’t move. Just looked up at him with those heavy-lidded eyes and let her fingers trail along his jaw. Not possessive. Not shy. Like she already knew how he tasted.

She leaned in, mouth at his ear.

“You ain’t gotta be good with me.”

Smoke stirred in his sleep, one leg shifting beneath the sheet.

In the dream, her hands were warm on his chest. She pressed a kiss to his sternum. One to the side of his throat. Her breath was heat. Her hair brushed his lips. And her voice—

“I won’t tell.”

He woke with a hard gasp, sweat rolling down his temples, one hand pressed to his stomach.

His dick was stiff—aching—his heart thudding too loud in the stillness.

He hadn’t felt like this in over a year. Hadn’t let himself.

Smoke sat up slowly. Ran both hands down his face.

“Goddamn woman,” he whispered.

He didn’t touch himself. Didn’t finish the burn.

He just sat there in the dark, needing something he couldn’t name, and knowing—

She wasn’t just a problem.

She was the match.

And he was already burning.

The kitchen smelled of browned butter and cane sugar.

Sunlight poured in through the east window, catching the copper pans and glass jars with a glow so rich it looked like amber syrup was seeping through the air. The house was still quiet—August was out tending to the horses, and the twins were likely just rising.

Delphine moved with instinct, gathering what she needed. Butter softened in a chipped white dish. Cornmeal and flour sifted together. Buttermilk cold against her fingers. Her night was still on her skin, a hum beneath her clothes she hadn’t shaken loose.

She hadn’t slept long. Didn’t need to. The ache she carried wasn’t the kind rest could mend. A curl slipped loose from her wrap and fell along her cheek. She didn’t bother brushing it away.

She hummed as she moved. Not a full tune—just the ghost of a melody she used to sing when her hands weren’t full of chores or memory. Something slow. Bluesy. Low enough to stir a soul without waking it fully.

She cracked an egg, one-handed. A familiar rhythm.

Behind her, floorboards creaked.

Then she felt it.

That shift in the air.

A stillness that meant she was not alone.

She didn’t turn immediately.

She let the silence stretch—let him think she hadn’t noticed.

Then, gently, she set the spoon down and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Morning, Miss Delphine.”

Elijah’s voice.

Low, rough with sleep, like sugar cane crushed down to something thick.

“You always move that quiet, Elijah? Or is it just my kitchen brings out the hush in men?”

Smoke cleared his throat behind her.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t.”

Now she turned.

He stood in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, boots unlaced, hair still a little damp from washing. The sun caught him sideways—lit his jaw and collarbone in honeyed amber, and the look in his eyes…

That look was what women pretended not to see.

She tilted her head slightly, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You eat in the morning, Elijah?”

“I do.”

“Good. I make my biscuits with lard. None of that city butter nonsense.”

He nodded, gaze dipping briefly to the curve of her waist, the slip of skin at her collarbone.

Delphine caught it.

But she didn’t shame it. She understood it.

The war had starved men in ways they didn’t speak of.

She turned back to the oven, bending just slightly as she slid the cobbler in. When she stood, she wiped her hands again and walked toward the stove, where a pot of coffee was beginning to bubble.

“Want me to pour you a cup?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She reached for the mugs, her fingers lingering just a second longer on the rim.

When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed.

That same quiet heat.

That unspoken dare.

Still nothing overt.

But nothing innocent either.

“Stack still sleepin’?” she asked, taking a sip from her own mug.

“He’s up. Just movin’ slow.”

“Y’all always move different in the morning?”

“Stack gets loud. I get still.”

Delphine smiled. Let that truth settle between them.

She walked to the open back door and stood in the sun, sipping her coffee, robe fluttering lightly at the hem.

Smoke didn’t leave the kitchen. He stood behind her, quiet, still. Watching the morning light slip across her skin like prayer. He didn’t speak again, just lingered in the doorway. She could feel him there—big and quiet like thunder in the distance. Not moving. Just watching her shoulders. Her waist. The easy sway of her hips as she worked.

“You gon’ stand there lookin’ till I burn the cornbread?”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. He shook his head, but didn’t leave.

Delphine rolled her eyes, soft and teasing, and slid the skillet into the oven.

She bent slightly—knew how she looked from behind. Knew exactly what he was seeing.

But when she stood, she only dusted her hands and kept it moving. She moved to the sink, rinsing her hands in the cool basin. His eyes stayed with her the whole time. She felt it the way a woman always does.

By the time Stack stepped into the kitchen, the scent of baking cornbread and fried salt pork had already curled through the house like a lover’s whisper. He paused just past the threshold. Delphine was at the sink again—elbows deep in soapy water, her back to him, shoulders relaxed, humming low under her breath. Something old and gospel-sweet. Her hips moved slightly with it, swaying like branches in wind that knew its rhythm.

Stack leaned against the frame, arms folded. Took his time admiring what August probably hadn’t touched in months.

Shame.

She turned slightly, glancing at him from over her shoulder, one brow arched.

“You lookin’ for breakfast or a job, Elias?”

“Could be both,” he answered, pushing off the doorframe, “Figured I’d earn it if I ate it.”

She smiled—just a flicker.

“You know your way around a kitchen?”

“’Round it, maybe. Inside it? Not unless I’m fixin’ to steal pie.”

That got a laugh from her. A rich, honey-warm sound that curled around his spine like smoke.

“Mmh,” she said, rinsing a plate, “Dryin’ cloth’s over there. Let’s see if you halfway useful.”

He found it, moved beside her. Not too close. Just enough that her scent—brown sugar, lemon balm, and something woman-warm drifted up each time she moved. They worked in silence for a moment. Her hands washed, his dried. The air between them heavy in that kind of way that don’t need words.

“Folks say twins can feel each other’s thoughts,” she said, not looking at him, “That true?”

“Sometimes,” Stack said, “Depends on what kind of thought.”

“And what kind you got now?”

She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his. There was no flirt in her voice. Not obvious, anyway. Just that Southern dare that sweet women use when they know they’re dangerous.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

“None I’d say out loud, Miss Delphine.”

A beat passed.

Then she handed him the next plate. Fingers brushed. Her touch lingered a second too long.

“Good answer,” she said, “Keep thinkin’ quiet.”

They went back to work like nothing happened.

But both of them felt it.

Felt the thrum rising slow between them, quiet as a storm before it breaks.

Smoke was already sitting at the table, shirt still clinging damp to his back from the early work. The smell of salt pork and baked cornbread hung thick in the air, warm and coaxing. Delphine was at the stove, back turned again, humming soft as she slid eggs onto a plate.

Stack didn’t speak. Just moved to sit across from his brother, nodding once as he did.

Smoke gave the barest nod back.

The only sounds were the scrape of chair legs, the crack of plates against wood, and the faint creak of the ceiling fan overhead.

Delphine placed a plate in front of Stack without a word, her fingers brushing the edge. He looked up just as she turned. Her eyes didn’t linger, but her hips did—rocking slow with each step back to the stove.

Stack looked across the table.

Elijah was watching her too—quiet, unreadable, chewing slow like he was thinking of anything but food.

“Mr. Langston wants me to ride into town with him after this,” Stack said, tearing off a piece of cornbread, “Wants to check in on somethin’ before next week’s shipment.”

Smoke didn’t say anything at first. He just kept chewing. Then he nodded.

“You drivin’ or just ridin’ along?”

“Said I’d help load whatever he needs. Might stop at the feed store, maybe the grocer.” Stack paused, “You want me to pick you up anything?”

Smoke’s eyes flicked toward him.

“No,” he said, “Don’t take long. Still need to finish the fence.”

“I know.”

They lapsed into quiet again.

Both men ate. Slow, methodical. Each aware of the other’s silence.

From the stove, Delphine poured herself a glass of water. She didn’t sit. Just leaned on the edge of the counter and sipped, the morning light washing her skin gold. Her dress clung in the front now too—showing the outline of her soft belly, the heavy curve of her breasts beneath the cotton.

Stack glanced at Smoke again.

His brother was still eating—but his jaw had gone tight.

That quiet, still rage that came not from anger but from hunger. The kind a man buried so deep it became part of his bones.

Stack smirked a little and shook his head.

He took another bite of cornbread, butter melting down his fingers, and kept chewing. Like the end of the world wasn’t already stewing in the kitchen.

Clarksdale hadn’t changed much.

Same sun-baked roads. Same whitewashed storefronts. Same men with slow eyes and women with quicker ones. But something felt different now that he was back. He wasn’t a boy anymore. Wasn’t just some loud-mouthed twin with quick fists and a sharper tongue.

Now he was a man with dirt under his nails and blood in his memories.

And folk could see it in his eyes.

He rode passenger while August Langston drove the truck through town, a crate of sweet potatoes and muscadine jelly jostling in the back, along with a few bags of corn feed for the horses.

“You remember where the store’s at?” August asked, eyes straight ahead beneath the brim of his hat.

“The Chow’s place?” Stack replied, “Ain’t moved since we were little. Always smelled like fish and pepper vinegar.”

August gave a low chuckle, “Ain’t nothin’ ever really change in Clarksdale. Just people come and go.”

“Sometimes they come back different.”

August didn’t answer that.

They parked near the curb where dust curled off the wheels and boots slapped against the porch steps. The sun was beating good now, but the town was alive—women with baskets of greens on their hips, kids chasing chickens in the alley, men chewing toothpicks in the shade with stories they wouldn’t say around wives.

Stack hopped out, leaned against the side of the truck for a breath.

That’s when he saw him.

Bo Chow—still short, still lean in the chest, all wiry muscle and sharp eyes—was out front hauling in a crate of catfish wrapped in newspaper from a local supplier. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms slick with water, apron tied tight around his narrow waist. His face lit up when he saw Stack.

“Damn, Stack?” Bo dropped the crate right there, “Boy, I thought you was dead or married!”

“Half dead, ain’t married!” Stack grinned, stepping forward to grip his hand, “But the Lord saw fit to spit me back out.”

Bo pulled him into a quick hug, clapped his back twice.

“Where Smoke at?”

“Ranch. Got us work again. August Langston took us in.”

“That man still upright?” Bo laughed, “Hell. You must’ve made an impression.”

“Daddy did. August owed him.”

Bo sobered for a breath. Looked Stack over.

“You look good, man. A little haunted—but good.”

Stack smirked but didn’t argue.

Behind them, Bo’s younger cousin peeked out the door of the store, curiosity in her eyes.

“You still runnin’ this place?” Stack asked.

“Yeah. Mama passed. Daddy’s mostly in the back. Got cousins helpin’. We stayin’ afloat. You comin’ by for real food soon or just flirtin’ with my fish?”

“Both.”

August called from the truck then, voice sharp but not unkind.

“Elias.”

Stack tipped his hat.

“Gotta run.”

Bo nodded, “A’ight. Come by later. First jar of pickled okra on the house.”

As Stack walked back to the truck, he felt it: something strange in the ease of that conversation. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

Belonging.

August was quiet as he shifted the truck into gear.

Then, after a few minutes on the road, August spoke.

“You your daddy’s boy.”

Stack looked over, unsure what to make of the tone.

“He was fire,” August said, still not looking at him, “Hard-headed. Could charm a knife out a man’s boot. Trouble, but loyal.”

“He wasn’t always kind,” Stack said.

“No. He wasn’t. But he protected what was his.”

The truck hit a bump. The crate shifted behind them.

“You got that same edge,” August added, softer now, “It’s not a bad thing. Just be careful who you cut with it.”

Stack didn’t answer.

He just stared out the window, the trees passing like ghosts.

And in the quiet space between them, he thought of Delphine’s robe slipping down her shoulder.

And wondered what kind of cut that would be.

That dress this morning—so thin it might as well have been nothing. The way she moved through that house like it was hers and always had been. A full-grown woman with hips made to cradle. Breasts that begged to be worshipped. Skin that looked like it held the day’s heat long after sundown.

She was older. He knew that. Not by much, but enough.

Old enough to know how to undo a man slow, and never say sorry for it.

Stack shifted in the seat, jaw flexing.

Was August even touchin’ her like that anymore?

He didn’t seem the type to keep up. Not lately. Not with that stiff, preacher-like calm he wore more and more. Stack had watched the man leave for the stables early, smoke his pipe late, barely brush Delphine’s arm in passing.

Shame, he thought, jaw ticking. All that woman should be tended to regular.

He imagined how she’d be—sweet and mean at the same time, pressing her mouth against a man’s throat, pulling his hair, saying his name like a song and a warning.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Bet she’d lose her damn mind over a young dick. One that could go more than once. One that ain’t afraid to lift her up and take his time with every inch.

Stack let out a breath and adjusted his legs.

He shouldn’t be thinking like this.

Not with the man right next to him.

But hell, he couldn’t help it.

Delphine wasn’t just beautiful. She carried something. That kind of sexual energy you didn’t just see—you felt it on your skin. Like heat before a thunderstorm. Like static on your knuckles before a spark. She smiled soft and polite around August, but Stack saw the glint in her eye. The still-burning woman under all that sweet.

And Lord, did he want to be the one to let her burn.

The truck hit a bump, rattling them both slightly.

“You alright?” August asked, glancing at him for the first time.

Stack nodded once, clearing his throat.

“Yeah. Just thinkin’.”

August made a small sound, something between understanding and dismissal. He tapped his pipe against the doorframe. Stack looked out the window again, the ranch drawing closer, the sky starting to split gold and rose over the fields.

He didn’t say another word.

Didn’t need to.

His thoughts were already back in that kitchen.

Back with her.

He didn’t mean to stop.

Smoke had just come from the field, shirt tied at the waist, dirt smudged along his arms and neck. The sun was cruel overhead, but there was shade near the kitchen window—just enough to pause a minute and let his body cool.

Butter. Brown sugar. Cobbler still warm, crust soft and golden like a kiss to the tongue. That’s what hit him when he stepped around back, arms sore from the woodpile, sweat clinging to his neck.

That was when he saw her.

Delphine.

She was at the window, back turned, sliding cobblers from the oven to the sill with practiced ease. Bare arms flexing gently with each lift. Her thin cotton dress—white, almost sheer in the sunlight—clung to every curve God took His sweet time on.

Hips like she was poured into the world.

Breasts full and soft beneath the fabric, bouncing faintly with her motion.

That ass—Jesus—round and high, framed like a painting in the kitchen light.

She moved like a woman who knew she was being watched, even if she didn’t look up.

She was humming low—something bluesy and wordless. It wrapped around Smoke’s spine like honey drizzled slow.

He stood still.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe much either.

A bead of sweat rolled from his temple down his jaw. He wiped it absently, eyes never leaving her. She licked her thumb, touched the edge of a crust, then gave a soft, satisfied sigh.

Smoke shifted his stance, suddenly aware of the way his pants felt tight around the groin. He cursed under his breath.

This ain’t nothin’ but trouble.

But he didn’t walk off.

Not yet.

She reached up to adjust the curtain, her body stretching just so—and the dress lifted higher on the backs of her thighs. Lord, he could almost see the split where her legs met. Could almost taste the sweetness she kept pressed between them like fruit in summer heat.

His hands balled into fists at his sides.

He was hard.

Hard and angry about it.

Not at her—but at himself. At the way he wanted so bad it made his teeth ache.

“You gon’ stare all day, Elijah?”

Her voice came through the window, amused but low—thick like syrup over warm bread.

He froze.

She didn’t look at him. Just set the last cobbler down and turned back to the counter.

“Ain’t polite,” she added, voice smooth.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“It’s Miss Delphine.”

He backed away slowly, jaw tight, heat still pulsing between his legs. He turned, headed back toward the field, dust swirling around his boots.

He shouldn’t’ve looked.

But the scent got him first.

And then she leaned into the windowsill.

Dress clinging. Hips tilted just so. That thick ass perched high like it was placed on a platter, framed by the sunlight pouring in.

He stopped breathing.

She didn’t even glance his way. Just lifted onto her toes to slide another cobbler outside—hips shifting with that slow, syrupy grace that turned his knees loose.

His dick jumped.

And then she had turned.

Eyes like she’d been waitin’ on him to break.

Shit.

Smoke jerked his head back to the woodpile like it mattered. Gripped the axe too hard. Split the log wrong. But it didn’t matter. It was too late.

Because now all he could see was her mouth.

That lush, wicked mouth—full lips that looked like they were born to take things slow. He’d watched her drag a spoon between them the day before, licking peach juice like it was some private ritual. He’d had to leave the room.

And her thighs? Soft as risen dough, wide and welcoming when she sat with one leg crossed slow over the other. When she bent down, they kissed at the top, leaving just the smallest shadow between them.

He’d gone half-hard just watching her serve biscuits.

But her ass?

Lord. That was the thing that ruined him.

It moved like water. Like molasses warmed over fire. Every sway dragged his eyes and every curve told him he didn’t know a damn thing about control. When she walked past him that morning, the heat of her hips brushed him—just barely—and he’d nearly moaned out loud.

It’s only been two days.

And he was hard constantly.

Working with his shirt stuck to his back, dick pressed to the inside of his thigh like it was trying to reach for her. Dreaming about the way she said “baby”, like she could feed it to you with a spoon.

She didn’t even have to try.

Delphine was indulgence. Warm and sticky. Sin in a silk robe, humming blues under her breath while she stirred honey into hot biscuits with one bare foot up on the counter.

He wasn’t a boy, but she made him feel like one.

That ass…that mouth…the soft inside of her thighs…

“Fuck,” he muttered, adjusting himself behind the stack of logs like the wood might give him mercy.

She was still at the window, humming now. Slow. Sweet.

He swung the axe again. And again.

It didn’t help. The ache had settled deep.

Tonight he’d lie on that narrow cot, sweaty and strung tight, imagining the taste of brown sugar on her skin and her voice calling him baby.

And he’d pray to God she never caught him looking again.

Or worse—pray that she would.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Three

Part One Part Two

The sky was still black when Smoke left.

He didn’t tell nobody. Not even Stack. Just wrote a note on the kitchen counter in clean block letters.

Gone out. Handle somethin’. Watch the girls.

He buttoned his shirt slow, slid the pistol into the holster beneath his vest, then lit a cigarette and stepped into the dark.

The air was thick with dew and honeysuckle.

The road ahead was slick with moonlight.

And he didn’t look back.

The drive to Belzoni was quiet.

Just the hum of the engine and the crackle of his cigarette. Fields blurred past, soaked in fog. Cypress trees arched over the road like shadows waiting to reach for him.

He didn’t play music.

Didn’t whistle.

His mind was too full.

Violet.

That girl was still in his blood like a fever.

That ribbon.

That mouth.

That silence.

She hadn’t even let him kiss her yet.

And still he could feel the heat of her body every time he closed his eyes.

He pulled into town just past nine and parked on a side street near a clapboard house with peeling green paint and a rusted tin roof. He knocked once. Waited. The door opened to a man with a crooked mustache and sweat already beading on his brow.

Smoke didn’t smile.

“You owe Clifton’s brother three hundred. And you ain’t paid Stack back his cut from the last run. We got a problem?”

The man tried to laugh. Tried to talk slick.

Until Smoke sat down, pulled out his pistol, and laid it across the table like it was part of the conversation.

“Don’t make me raise my voice,” Smoke warned, “I ain’t no loud man. But when I talk, folk tend to remember.”

The money came quick after that.

In dirty bills.

Folded and counted slow.

Smoke took it. Counted again. Tucked it away.

Then stood and gave the man one last look.

“Next time I come back out here, it won’t be talkin’. You hear?”

The man nodded.

Smoke lit another cigarette on the porch.

And left.

The drive back felt longer.

The road stretched out wide and golden, heat shimmering just above the gravel. He cracked the window and let the wind roll in.

His thoughts drifted again—always back to her.

Violet.

That quiet breath when he called her good girl.

The way she trembled just from his thumb on her knee.

The smell of rosewater and heat that stuck to his skin after he walked away.

By the time the lights of Little Rock blinked into view, his hands were tight on the wheel.

His mouth dry.

His dick hard.

He adjusted himself beneath his slacks, jaw clenched.

“She doin’ this to me,” he muttered.

Didn’t even touch her.

But she had him.

When he reached The Blackline, the place was alive with sound.

Jazz spilling from the windows.

The scent of bourbon and heat rising off the porch like breath. He rolled up slow, straightened his coat, tucked the stack of bills in his inside pocket, and fixed his hat low over his eyes.

Tonight?

He was goin’ to see her. Not to fuck. Not to rush. But to let her feel how deep she’d already got inside him.

And if any man looked twice?

He’d deal with that too.

As time passed, The Blackline was full again. Laughter spilled into the street. Music throbbed from the walls. Light flickered in the windows. Smoke stepped to the door and gave the knock.

Low. Rhythmic. Familiar.

A voice behind the door cracked it open.

“Password?”

Passwords change once a week to keep things orderly.

“Moon don’t rise ‘til she call it.”

The door swung wide.

And Smoke stepped in like he owned every soul in the room.

He was dressed to kill.

Brown tweed suit, crisp collar, loafers polished, cigar tucked between sharp teeth, and a gold chain shining just beneath the button of his vest.

The crowd buzzed.

Some girls looked up. Some men moved out of the way.

But Smoke?

He scanned.

Eyes narrowed.

Pulse slow.

Searching.

And then…

There she was.

Violet.

Tucked behind the sheer curtain near the back booth, seated low on the velvet settee like a secret worth keeping. Her hair was pinned up soft, loose curly tendrils kissing her jaw. She wore deep red silk tonight, thin straps falling over brown shoulders, the hem barely covering the swell of her thighs.

She wasn’t looking at the floor this time.

She was looking at him.

Smoke moved without a word. He crossed the floor.

And instead of calling for her…

He sat beside her in hiding. The curtain swayed shut behind him. The noise of the room dulled. And in the half-light between them, he turned slowly.

“You been sittin’ back here thinkin’ I wouldn’t find you?”

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Smoke leaned in close, the scent of cigar and citrus peel warming the space between them.

“You wore that dress for me?”

Silence.

“You don’t gotta answer. I already know.”

He let the curtain fall completely closed.

And then?

He just looked at her.

Long.

Dark.

Hungry.

For a while.

Watching her tremble and shift beneath his penetrating gaze.

“I came back for this. For you.”

The sheer curtain was shut behind him like a closing door. They were alone now—tucked in shadow, the hum of laughter and jazz muffled into something soft and faraway. Violet sat beside him, legs pressed together, hands folded over her lap. Her perfume rose slowly in the warm air—lavender and rosewater, delicate but impossible to ignore. Smoke leaned back slightly, one arm draped along the curve of the seat behind her, his other hand resting against his thigh.

Close.

Not touching.

Not yet.

He let the silence stretch first.

Let her feel the weight of it.

Let her squirm in it a little.

Then his thumb—rough, callused, slow—brushed her knee.

Just once.

Back and forth.

Small, steady strokes that made the silk of her dress cling tighter to her thigh.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, voice low and rich, “Or is it just with me?”

Violet blinked slowly. Her lips parted, but her voice stayed caught in her chest.

Smoke’s thumb kept moving.

“Don’t gotta be nervous, baby. I ain’t in no rush to take nothin’ you ain’t ready to give.”

His gaze slid over her—that dress, those thighs, her trembling fingers.

Then back to her face.

“But I gotta ask…why you so shy around me? You sit on other men’s laps. Smile at ‘em. But when I walk in the room, you go real still. Like you afraid if you breathe too deep, I’ll catch it.”

Violet swallowed hard.

His thumb traced up, closer to the inside of her thigh—just barely—then back down to her knee.

“I like you shy though,” he murmured, “Sweet. Real sweet, “He leaned in a little more now, voice brushing the shell of her ear, “But, baby…you too sexy to keep your eyes low all the damn time.”

She looked at him then.

Eyes wide.

Soft.

Lit with something she was still learning how to carry.

And that’s when he noticed it.

The ribbon.

Lavender silk.

Still tied around her throat like a secret.

Smoke tilted his head. His hand slid up, thumb tracing the knot.

“This right here,” he said, “What this mean?” His voice dropped even lower, “You wear it like it’s holdin’ you together,” His thumb brushed beneath it, just enough to graze the warm skin of her throat, “You lettin’ it keep you closed? Or waitin’ for the right hands to untie it?”

The soft glow of the room kissed the edge of Violet’s cheek. Smoke’s thumb stayed under her chin, gently grazing the silk knot at her throat.

That lavender ribbon.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lean in.

Didn’t pull away.

She just let him touch it.

The knot was small. Clean. Pulled snug. The kind that only unravels when someone means to undo it slow. Smoke’s thumb circled once beneath it, then up the side of her neck, dragging lightly across her skin—barely a whisper of pressure, but deep enough to make her breath falter.

“You ain’t gonna answer me?” he asked softly.

She parted her lips, then closed them again.

Nothing came out.

She held his gaze.

Eyes wide.

Dark.

Heavy with something she didn’t know how to name.

Smoke didn’t smile.

He didn’t smirk.

He just studied her.

“So that’s how you play it,” His voice dropped lower. Like the weight of it was sliding down her spine, “You gon’ let me touch. Let me talk. Let me sit up here with you behind this curtain like I’m already yours…”

His fingers brushed the underside of the ribbon again, then curled gently around the back of her neck—not pulling. Not claiming. Just there. Warm.

“…but you won’t give me nothin’. Not your words. Not your story. Not what this little bow means.”

Still, she said nothing. Just sat still, heart thundering, body melting, silence blooming like a bruise.

And that?

That did something to him.

Smoke leaned in just a little more, mouth near her jaw, voice softer than anything he’d ever said.

“You lettin’ me make up the story then?” He asked.

His hand moved up. Fingertips at the edge of her hairline now, palm warm on her throat, thumb still brushing that ribbon.

“Maybe this means you someone who wanna be unwrapped slow…by the right hands…only if they patient.”

Her lashes fluttered. Her thighs squeezed tight beneath her dress.

She didn’t speak.

And Smoke?

He didn’t need her to.

He leaned back slightly, dragging his fingers down her arm this time, to her wrist—where he let them pause, then pulled away entirely.

“Alright then.”

He stood.

Straightened the sleeves of his coat.

Lit a cigar from a silver lighter.

Then he turned his head just enough to say, “Next time I come back behind this curtain…don’t wear that bow if you don’t want it noticed.”

And just like that, he slipped out of the curtain, smoke trailing after him like a vow.

It was the day before Juneteenth, and The Blackline vibrated with a pulse all its own. Downstairs, the men drank harder. The dice slapped louder. The music ran long and low and full of heat.

But upstairs?

The women had made something different.

Behind one closed door, a spare room had been transformed into a silk-laced haven. The girls had dragged in pillows—velvet and satin in deep jewel tones—layered over thick rugs that swallowed footsteps. The windows were dressed in sheer gold curtains. The lamps had scarves tossed over them, turning the room amber and red.

And in the center of it all: the women.

They weren’t working.

They were living.

Laughing. Drinking. Swaying their hips in the soft candlelight.

Cordelia had orchestrated the whole thing.

She sat in a chaise by the wall, long legs crossed, cigarette perched in one hand while she gave direction like a madam turned jazz conductor.

“Turn that song up!” she said with a grin, “Peaches, shake that ass like the South done blessed it!”

Peaches grinned and did exactly that—hips wide and rolling, soft brown thighs clapping in time with the bassline, her breasts swaying under a sheer chemise that left nothing to the imagination. The girls hollered and clapped, laughter ringing like bells.

They were every shade of gorgeous.

Skin the color of warm pecan, copper, blue-black, honey, and cream.

Some with thick afros adorned in scarves and gold pins.

Others with finger waves pressed tight to their scalps, lips painted red, eyes lined in kohl.

Some wore corsets that cinched them sharp.

Others were bare beneath sheer slips, thighs out, stretch marks shining.

They were soft.

They were strong.

They were free.

Violet sat in the corner, cross-legged on a plum-colored cushion, giggling behind her fingers. Her hair had been pressed and set into elegant finger waves, glossy and pinned just so behind her ears. She wore a pale lilac chemise trimmed in lace—nothing revealing, but delicate enough to show the soft swell of her breasts and the curve of her waist.

She looked like a secret somebody would beg to keep.

And she was glowing.

The girls swayed to a slow blues number now, hips rocking, shoulders rolling, bottles passed hand to hand.

Then came a knock at the door.

The room went hush for a breath.

Then—

“What all that ruckus in here?!” came Stack’s voice, low and teasing.

Cordelia grinned around her cigarette, “Ain’t no business in here for you, sugar.”

Peaches bent over at the waist and gave a slow shake.

The girls laughed.

“C’mon now,” Stack said from the door, “My gals up here hidin’ silk and sweat and I ain’t invited?! Typa shit is this?!”

He leaned in—shirt loose, sleeves rolled, gold tooth catching the light in his smirk.

The girls looked at each other—then pounced.

They grabbed his wrist, pulled him inside with mock protests and real laughter, tugged him down onto the pillows. Stack hit the floor with a low grunt, his back dropping into the silk pillows as the women circled him like cats with warm bellies and wild smiles. Peaches straddled one thigh, her weight full and soft, her hips shifting slow just to feel his breath catch.

Stack just laughed as Peaches dropped onto his lap.

“You sure you can handle this?” Cordelia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You better hope I can’t.” He fired back with a dimpled smirk.

“Look at him,” Peaches grinned, “Already tryin’ not to breathe too deep.”

The other girls laughed.

Cordelia passed a bottle of peach liqueur over her shoulder and leaned in beside his ear.

“You always come knockin’ when the air’s thick and the women ain’t lookin’ for nothin’ but laughter.”

Stack opened his mouth to speak, But someone else—a petite girl named Raylene with skin like sweet tea and a high giggle—slid behind him, draping her arms around his shoulders and licking a stripe up the side of his neck.

“Bet he came up here hopin’ to be worshipped,” she purred.

“Bet he ain’t ready for what that feel like,” Peaches muttered, and started moving her hips in slow, exaggerated figure-eights right on his thigh.

The room filled with heat.

Bodies swayed.

The blues kept playing low and dirty through the speaker.

Silk rustled under shifting thighs.

Laughter broke open in waves.

Stack tried to speak again—tried to sit up.

Cordelia pushed him back down with one palm to his chest.

“Nah, baby. You stay right there.”

She tapped her cigarette against a glass tray and crossed her legs on the other side of him.

“You wanna see how pretty women play when ain’t no men watchin’? We givin’ you a front-row seat.”

Another girl—tall, dark-skinned, thick with golden bangles stacked up her arms—bent low in front of him, so close he could see the sweat shining between her breasts.

“Touch if you brave,” she teased, “but if you grab, we tie you up.”

The room howled with laughter again.

Stack exhaled hard, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple.

“Y’all gon’ make me sin…make me act the fuck up,” he said.

Peaches laughed and ground down a little harder, just enough to make him groan.

“Baby,” she said, low and sugar-dripping, “you already sinnin’. We just teachin’ you how to enjoy it. Our way. AINT THAT RIGHT?!”

The girls hollered in agreement.

In the corner, Violet couldn’t stop laughing.

She had both hands covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking with giggles. She’d never seen Stack like this—flushed, overwhelmed, surrounded by women who didn’t care who he was outside that room.

They were having fun.

But they were also showing power.

And Violet, glowing in lilac silk, lips still red, was learning how much of hers had yet to be touched. She had settled deeper into her corner, half-curled into a mound of golden pillows now. Her cheeks still ached from laughing, and her belly was warm—not from food, but from the air, the music, the perfume of women drunk off each other’s freedom.

She was still glowing.

Still breathless from watching Stack squirm beneath Peaches’ wide, slow hips.

That’s when a girl dropped beside her.

Velvet skin the shade of polished mahogany.

Wide smile, gold tooth glinting in the lamplight.

Hair coiled and braided up into a crown, adorned with a few stray cowrie shells.

Her name was Lana.

And she handed Violet the half-empty bottle of peach liqueur like they’d been friends for years.

“You look like you blushin’ behind that laugh,” Lana said, grinning, “Go on and sip. Loosen that little heart up.”

Violet giggled shyly, then brought the bottle to her lips and took a warm, syrupy swallow.

It burned sweet.

Lana stretched her legs out and leaned back beside her.

“Mmm, chile,” she said with a satisfied sigh, “I can’t wait for Juneteenth.”

Violet smiled, licking her lips.

“Y’all do somethin’ special every year?”

Lana nodded, her gold hoops catching the light as she turned her head.

“Stack always make sure of it. Says if we gon’ sell pleasure, we better know our freedom too.”

Her voice dropped slightly, turning warm, thoughtful.

“I’m from Galveston, you know.”

Violet blinked.

“You serious?”

“Born and raised. My granny used to tell me ‘bout that day like it was still smokin’ in her bones. When the soldiers came with the news. When them shackles was lifted in word, but not yet in law.”

She took the bottle back, sipped slow.

“So when Stack first told me he celebrated it here? With us? With me? Whew.” She laughed, loud and musical, “Let’s just say I ain’t hesitate to thank him properly.”

Violet raised an eyebrow, lips curved, “Oh?”

Lana leaned in, shoulder brushing Violet’s. Her voice dropped to a sexy whisper, meant just for the two of them.

“He said new girls need a proper welcome. Took me right in that music room…just me and him and Billie singin’ low on the record. Said he liked my stretch marks. Said my moanin’ sounded like prayer.”

Violet’s eyes went wide.

Lana just grinned wider.

“Had my legs shakin’ so hard, I thought he conjured me straight through the floorboards.”

They both dissolved into giggles, Lana’s bolder, Violet’s softer.

But Violet?

She was squirming.

Not because of Stack.

But because every line of that story made her think of Smoke.

Would he talk like that?

Would he move slow like jazz?

Would he notice the softness of her thighs and the sound her mouth made when she whimpered?

She took another sip of peach liqueur.

Pressed her thighs together.

And looked across the room—half-expecting Smoke to be there already. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.

The peach liqueur was humming in Violet’s veins like a lazy river—warm, thick, and slow.

She felt it in her fingertips.

In the way her giggle stuck to her throat.

In the heat building low in her belly.

Lana’s story still echoed in her ears, all moaning and silk and praise, and now Violet’s thighs wouldn’t stop pressing together beneath her lilac chemise.

The laughter in the room rose louder behind her.

Peaches was straddling Stack again—this time facing him.

Her robe was open.

Stack’s shirt had come off.

His chest was slick with sweat and grinning teeth.

“Lord,” Violet murmured with a little smile.

She slipped up from the pillows, careful not to wobble, smoothing the hem of her chemise and adjusting a clip behind her ear that held her soft waves flat.

She didn’t announce she was leaving.

Didn’t call attention.

She just slid through the veil of the curtain—soft and shadowed—and into the dim hallway where the laughter dulled to a hush behind the closed door. The house outside that room felt quieter now. Like it had exhaled. The lights were lower. The music from below was muffled—just the steady thrum of blues crawling up the floorboards.

Violet leaned lightly against the wall for a moment.

Pressed her hand to her chest.

Her pulse was wild.

The ribbon still clung to her throat.

The peach burned behind her lips.

And all she could think about was Smoke.

She started walking—barefoot, slow, silk brushing her thighs—down the hallway, away from the noise.

She didn’t know where she was going.

Just away. Just toward something quieter. Something rougher. Something waiting. Violet walked soft and barefoot down the narrow hallway, one hand gliding along the wall for balance.Her thighs brushed with every step, warm beneath her chemise.

The silk stuck in places now.

The ribbon at her throat was looser but still there.

The house was quieter here.

Just the creak of old floorboards, the distant moan of blues from downstairs, and the faint rhythm of something wild echoing from the silk-draped room she’d left behind. Her chest rose and fell in slow waves.

The laughter had faded.

But the heat?

Still lived in her bones.

She slipped into a small room at the far end of the hall.

It wasn’t much, just a settee, a lamp with a broken shade, a cracked window that let in a breath of breeze.

She sat down, slowly.

The cushions hissed beneath her.

She leaned back, her arms behind her, head tilted toward the ceiling.

The soft press of liquor had made her loose, not clumsy, just unguarded.

And Smoke…

He was in her now.

The ribbon.

The way he held her jaw and said nothing.

The promise in his silence.

Violet exhaled.

Juneteenth morning broke hot and honey-slow.

By midday, The Blackline was alive with motion.

Doors open. Windows flung wide. Fans turning slow over polished wood. The scent of pressed hair, roasting pork, peach smoke, and lilac water mixed in the air like a love song. Downstairs, tables were being rearranged. Candles trimmed. Extra bottles of rye brought in. Stack barked instructions from behind his cigar, and men moved fast to keep up.

Upstairs?

The girls were getting ready.

In the dressing room, silk and lace hung like ghosts from every hook and beam. Violet stood in front of the long mirror, fingers twitching at the hem of her slip, a slight crease between her brows as she tried to choose what would make her look like she belonged in a room lit by moonlight and blues. Her hair had already been styled in soft finger waves pinned with precision, falling just over one brow. Her skin—café au lait and glowing—looked kissed by morning light. Her ribbon still rested at her throat, a little looser today.

But she couldn’t decide on the dress.

Something short?

Tight?

Black?

Or maybe red?

She exhaled.

That’s when Cordelia entered, followed by Minnie, a curvy girl with skin like polished bronze and a laugh that stuck to the walls.

Cordelia eyed Violet immediately, hands on her hips.

“You still standin’ there like you don’t know you fine?”

Violet smiled, soft and unsure, “I don’t wanna pick wrong…”

Minnie came up behind her, adjusting the mirror with one hand.

“Chile, there ain’t no wrong. Not with that figure.”

Cordelia circled her like a hawk, eyes sharp, appraising.

“You slim, but them hips? Mmm. You hold your weight sweet. We gon’ show that off. Right, Min?”

Minnie nodded, already reaching for the vanity.

“Come sit. I’m doin’ your face.”

“Face?”

“Makeup, baby,” Minnie grinned, “We gon’ give you that flapper fantasy.”

Violet sat, heart racing, while Minnie began to work—soft brushes, careful hands, rich creams and powders. Dark liner winged out from the corners of her hazel eyes, making them glow like firelight. Her lips were painted in a deep, kissable cherry red, the shape exaggerated just a little. A touch of shimmer dusted her cheekbones.

“Whew,” Minnie whispered, “You look like trouble walkin’ slow.”

Cordelia had vanished and returned with a hanger draped in velvet and shine.

“Here.”

She held it up.

A deep plum slip dress, short enough to show thigh, cut low in the back, trimmed in beaded fringe that would shimmer with every sway of Violet’s hips.

“This,” Cordelia said, eyes narrowing with approval,“gon’ stop time when you walk in.”

She helped Violet out of her slip, careful with the ribbon, her fingers lingering at the waist.

“You got softness,” she spoke seductively, “Don’t hide that. Men don’t forget the ones that move gentle.”

When Violet turned to the mirror again, she barely recognized herself. She looked like she belonged on stage, wrapped in midnight, dipped in jazz and warm wine.

And behind the softness of her blush?

Was a glimmer of power.

After she got herself dolled up with the help of Minnie and Cordelia, Violet sat perched on a velvet stool just outside the dressing room, her knees pressed together, fingers tracing the curve of her ribbon. The house was buzzing beneath her, music warming up, laughter echoing, the scent of perfume and pomade thick in the air. Girls passed by in heels and fringe, calling to one another, adjusting earrings, reapplying rouge.

But Violet?

She stayed still.

The plum dress hugged her just right.

The fringe tickled her thighs when she shifted.

Her hair—finger-waved and set—framed her face like a jazz record come to life. She sipped from a glass of sweet red, breath steadying.

Smoke would see her tonight.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d let him do more than just look.

Upstairs, the door opened with a slam and the low sound of boots on floorboards.

“Ladies!” Stack’s voice echoed down the hall like a preacher warming up,“Line up! Time for your check-in. Y’all ain’t gon’ embarrass my house tonight! least not before midnight!”

The girls squealed and scattered, lining up along the upper hallway, backs straight, lips pursed, fringe glittering. Violet slid off her stool and joined them, second to last.

Her heart beat like a slow drum.

Stack walked slow, cigar tucked behind his ear, jacket slung over one shoulder. He moved like a man who already knew what he’d find but still enjoyed the art of the viewing.

He passed by Peaches first, tapped her thigh.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, Georgia Peach! Hips look like jazz.”

He smirked at Lana, winked, told her she better not steal all the attention before ten o’clock. He circled Minnie, tugged the strap on her dress just enough to hear her cuss and laugh.

“Keep that energy later,” he muttered, “when they toss bills at your feet.”

Then he got to Violet.

And everything…paused.

He didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t tap her hip like the others.

He just looked.

Took her in.

Head to toe.

The pressed waves.

The plum dress.

The blush that crawled up her neck when she realized how long he’d been staring.

“Damn, girl,” he said softly, “You look…sweet.”

Violet blinked.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He leaned just a little closer, voice dropping, “You gon’ stop the room when you step in, you know that?”

She bit her lip, eyes lowering.

He grinned, eyes soft now.

“And Smoke?” he added, quieter, “He gon’ lose his whole mind.”

Stack tipped his chin, stepped past her, and clapped his hands.

“Alright now! Y’all ready? Juneteenth done arrived, and I want ‘em cryin’ into their cigars by the time the blues hit the third verse!”

The girls hollered. Cheered.

But Violet?

She stayed still a little longer.

The warmth of that compliment curled around her like satin.

And somewhere inside?

She hoped Smoke was already downstairs.

And waiting.

“Freedom rings at midnight.”

The sun dipped low behind the pines, casting the sky in ribbons of gold and plum. And as the heat shifted into dusk, The Blackline came alive. Music poured from the doors like honey—slow, sticky blues, harmonicas wailing, bass low enough to rattle your ribs.

Cigars lit.

Skirts swayed.

And the air was thick with freedom.

Inside, the parlor was packed.

Women in satin and lace glided across the floor, heels clicking, hips rocking.

Men leaned in shadows, sipping rye, eyes roaming like they were hunting songs they hadn’t heard yet.

Candles flickered in cut-glass holders.

Rose petals floated in a basin by the entryway.

The whole place smelled like warm bourbon, magnolia petals, and sweet smoke curling in from the back.

At the bar, Juneteenth specials were scrawled in chalk.

Red punch. Hibiscus gin. Pickled watermelon chasers. Sweet tea with a kick.

Cordelia raised a toast on her third round of punch, hips swaying to the beat.

“TO FREEDOM!!!!!” she shouted, “And to the fine, fast, filthy ways we claim it TONIGHT!!!!”

The room roared back.

“To freedom!”

A deep-voiced guest at the bar shouted, “We ain’t just survivors we the blueprints!”

One of the girls, standing barefoot on a table, dancing screamed, “They tried to bury us, baby but look at us grow!”

Stack, in the middle of the room, raising his glass slow and raised his voice, “To the ones that didn’t make it. And to us for carryin’ ’em forward!”

A woman with a gold-tooth grin near the piano shouted, “We put blood, sweat, and tears into this so-called free land don’t you ever forget it!”

Laughter erupts. Then a man with a harmonica slaps his knee and booms, “We ain’t free ’cause they said so we free ’cause we know so!”

Another girl, hips swaying in a fringed dress, tosses her curls hollered, “Juneteenth ain’t just a date, baby it’s a declaration!”

An older man in suspenders and scuffed boots, eyes watery, “My grandmama died never knowin’ this kind of joy…I drink for her tonight.”

The room falls briefly silent, then a voice cries out.

“To the Black soul, to the Black spine, to the Black grind! TO FREEDOM!”

Outside, the gravel crackled under boot heels and the sharp scent of wood smoke drifted in the breeze.

A man with arms thick as tree trunks stood over a pit grill—flipping ribs, brushing them down with sauce so sweet and spicy it made folks moan before they took a bite.

Back porch windows were open wide, letting music and sweat roll out into the warm night air.

And in the back kitchen was Auntie Pearl. She stirred her pots like she was conjurin’ spells. Mid-60s. Wide smile. Streaks of gray woven through her braids. Gold hoops. Apron stained with grease and pride. Her hands moved fast—black-eyed peas, candied yams, pan-fried chicken, cornbread dressed with sage. Stack ducked into the kitchen, a damp cigar between his fingers, his vest already unbuttoned, sweat clinging to his chest.

“What I gotta do to get a piece of that chicken?!”

Auntie Pearl didn’t look up. Just swatted his hand away from the plate he reached for.

“You want somethin’? Grab a broom and sweep that porch first. You ain’t too pretty to be useful.”

He laughed.

“Auntie, I’m celebratin’. This the one day I get to just eat and watch these women tear the world down with a shake of they hips.”

“And what have you done to earn that, hmm?”

“I threw the party.”

“So?” she said, rolling her eyes, “And I raised the one who made the damn ribs. Now get!”

He leaned in, kissed her cheek, and stole a piece of fried okra from the plate anyway. She smacked the back of his head and called him hard-headed and fine, in that exact order.

Back inside, the rhythm picked up.

A girl started dancing barefoot on the table.

Men hollered.

Smoke rose.

The Blackline, for one night, felt like the kind of freedom the ancestors dreamt of.

And somewhere upstairs…

Violet was about to walk into it.

Smoke leaned against the far wall of the main room, sipping slow from a glass of rye.

His jacket was slung over the back of a chair.

His vest hung open.

A fresh press of sweat slicked his throat beneath the low collar of his white shirt.

The room was hot with movement—shoulders swaying, drinks clinking, girls laughing with throats open wide and free.

Somebody yelled out a toast near the piano.

Somebody slapped a domino down with force.

But Smoke wasn’t watching them.

Not tonight.

He was watching the door.

Had been for the last twenty minutes.

Eyes sharp.

Cigar burning low between his fingers.

Boot tapping once every few seconds like a slow, ticking clock.

She wasn’t late.

He was just impatient.

Violet.

He could feel her coming before she showed.

Could almost smell that lavender and rosewater.

Could still feel the shape of her wrist in his palm, the bow at her throat brushing his lips like silk threaded with breath.

And when she stepped through that door?

He knew it’d be done.

Violet descended the stairs like the first note of a Pleasure chant.

Soft.

Intentional.

Unmistakably beautiful.

The plum dress clung to her curves like it was painted on.

Fringe shimmered with every step.

Her finger waves were carved with care, pinned just so above one brow.

The lights caught on her collarbones, her eyes, her lips painted deep cherry red, slightly parted as if she were afraid to breathe too loud.

And the ribbon?

Still there.

Lavender.

Tied clean and snug.

But tonight, it looked less like protection…

And more like invitation.

The room didn’t hush all at once.

But some men slowed their dice rolls.

Some girls paused mid-laugh.

Even the piano hit a few lazy, wondering notes.

And Smoke?

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Just took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaled through his nose, and watched her like she was the reason this house had walls. She didn’t scan the room. Didn’t search for him. But her eyes found his anyway.

And when they locked?

The noise disappeared.

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t tip his hat.

Didn’t speak.

But every inch of him said it

You wore that for me.

Violet stepped fully into the room.

The lights bounced off the beads along her hips.

Her heels tapped softly over the floorboards, steady but slow.

Not with fear…but weight.

Presence.

Heads turned.

Peaches let out a low whistle from across the parlor.

“Look at her…”

Men leaned toward her like flowers drawn to sun. One tried to get her attention, reaching gently to brush her hand.

“You new?” he asked, voice hopeful.

She gave a soft smile—polite. Noncommittal.

But her eyes?

They were still with Smoke.

Cordelia watched from the bar, a knowing smirk curling her lips. Stack leaned on the banister above, eyes wide, cigar paused halfway to his mouth.

“Lord, that girl look like a glass of red velvet.”

And still…

Smoke hadn’t moved.

He stood near the piano now, cigar ash curling, glass still in his hand.

Watching her.

Like a storm waiting on thunder.

Violet reached the center of the room where the music thickened and sweat ran deeper. The piano played low and slow, and she turned her body to the rhythm, hips swaying beneath the fringe just enough to make a few mouths fall open.

And then…

He moved.

Smoke stepped forward slow.

Not aggressive. Not loud. Just intentional.

Men parted.

Some watched, some stepped aside, and a one knew better. He reached her without touching. Just close enough for her to feel his breath stir the air between them. He looked her over from top to bottom.

Took his time.

Then brought his eyes back to hers.

“You tryin’ to kill me tonight, pretty thing?”

His voice was low, dry, almost worshiping.

Violet didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because her breath caught.

Her thighs pressed.

And that little bow at her throat?

Trembled.

The air between them thickened—warm and sweet with bourbon, blues, and breath.

Smoke extended his hand.

Didn’t say a word.

Just offered.

Violet looked at it like it might burn her. Then she slipped her palm into his. His fingers curled around hers—firm, sure.

He didn’t lead her far.

Just a few steps to the open space near the piano.

The music shifted. Something low. Drawn out. A rhythm born from fields and firelight. And he turned to her, close now, one hand on her waist, the other guiding her wrist.

“You ever danced like this to blues?” he asked, voice brushing her ear.

She shook her head slowly.

“Mmm, I figured.”

He didn’t tease.

He didn’t smile.

Just pulled her in a little closer.

Their bodies aligned—not chest to chest, but close enough for the heat to build between them like a storm cloud waiting to crack.

“Start with your hips,” he murmured, “Don’t think. Just follow me.”

She hesitated.

He felt it—her body tight, her spine straight, her weight too light on her heels.

He whispered lower, “Blues ain’t fast, baby. Ain’t showy.“It’s slow. Deep. Comes from down low. You feel me?”

Violet nodded, barely.

His hand dropped just a little—to the slope of her hips.

“Move from here.”

She tried. A soft sway. Hesitant.

He let her.

Watched.

Then leaned in more, breath warm at her neck.

“That’s it. Just loosen. Let it roll.”

She exhaled shakily.

He guided her again, hips circling with his grip, low and slow, his body staying just enough behind hers to let her move without pressure, but never without presence.

“Drop your weight a little. Uh huh. Right there. Now roll that ass just like that. Mmm…yeah.”

His hand stroked across the base of her spine.

Not groping.

Not claiming.

Just marking the rhythm.

“That’s how blues supposed to look. Like you mournin’ and flirtin’ at the same time.”

She blushed.

But her hips obeyed.

And soon?

The room around them blurred.

The voices, the dice, the clink of glass.

All gone.

Just Smoke’s breath at her neck.

His hand at her waist.

And the slow, sacred drawl of a blues guitar sliding between their bodies.

The music slowed. The last note of the guitar lingered like a moan in the bones of the room.

Violet’s breath trembled.

Her cheeks were pink. Her lips slightly parted. And the fringe of her dress still shook from the sway of her hips.

Smoke’s hand lingered at her waist.

Still.

Warm.

She didn’t speak at first.

But when she turned—slow, timid, eyes lifted only halfway, she spoke.

“…Thank you,” she whispered.

Her voice was soft, breathy, almost buried in the noise around them.

But Smoke heard it.

Felt it.

He leaned just a little closer, enough for her to smell the tobacco on his collar and feel the heat of his chest through the air.

“You learn quick,” he said, “And you move like honey on a hot plate.”

That made her blush deeper.

She started to turn away, but his hand found the small of her back again.

Not to stop her.

To guide her.

He led her slow.

Past tables. Past smoke. Past the low laughter and flicker of gas lamps.

To a corner near the back—curtained off, barely lit, where the sound of the party dulled into velvet hush. He pulled the curtain aside with one hand. Held it open for her. Inside, a single high-backed chair sat angled beneath a low amber lamp. Shadows danced across the walls like they’d been waiting.

Violet stepped in slow, her heels whispering against the worn rug.

She didn’t sit.

She just turned—uncertain, lips parted.

Smoke stepped in after her.

Let the curtain fall behind.

Now it was just the two of them. Breath and silence. And that tension curling between them like a thread of sweet smoke. He walked past her, slow, and sat in the chair—legs wide, elbows on his knees, looking up at her like she was made of silk and candlelight.

“You did real good out there,” he spoke closely to her, “But you still movin’ like you ain’t been touched proper yet.”

She swallowed.

Hard.

“You ever been in a man’s lap while the whole world burned outside that curtain?”

She shook her head.

“Good,” he said, voice low and thick, stroking his bottom lip with his thumb as he studied her, “Then come sit. Let me show you how heat’s supposed to feel when it ain’t rushed.”

Smoke glided his hands over his thighs invitingly. With slow strides, Violet eased into Smoke’s lap like she was stepping into warm water. Her weight sank slow, uncertain, her body perched delicately across his thighs. She didn’t know where to put her hands or if she was breathing too loud. Didn’t know how she looked.

Until he spoke.

“You look perfect.”

His voice was low, close, brushing against her ear like haze curling over a flame.

She flushed, lips parting, eyes flickering down.

“Mmm…mm,” he hummed.

One hand—rough, wide, warm—slid to her thigh. His thumb stroked her gently, just above the knee, up and down. Up and down.

“I mean that, Violet. You look perfect tonight.”

She swallowed.

Hard.

“And you sexy too,” he added, voice thickening, “This dress. That color on you. The way that fringe move when you walk…”

His hand stroked higher now—still outside the dress, slow, patient.

“But this right here…” He lifted his other hand to the soft knot at her throat, “This ribbon?”

She nodded, breath catching.

“You kept it on. That say a lot.”

She looked down again, shy.

“I like that,” his eyes tracked her, “I like a woman that don’t let go of her softness just ‘cause the room get loud.”

His hand moved again. Back to her thigh, slow strokes, up and down. The silk of her dress whispered beneath his fingers.

“What you know about touch?” he asked softly.

Her eyes darted to his, then away again.

“You ever been with a man before?”

She shook her head.

“You touch yourself?”

She hesitated. Her lips parted.

But no sound came.

Smoke’s hand paused.

He leaned in, his voice firmer now. Lower.

“Look at me.”

She tried.

Her lashes fluttered. Her gaze lifted, but didn’t quite stay.

“Uh-uh. Don’t shy away now. If I’m talkin’ to you like this, touchin’ you like this…”

His hand moved again—higher now, grazing the inside of her thigh so lightly she whimpered.

“…You give me them eyes.”

She looked.

Really looked.

And something shifted in the room.

“That’s it,” he uttered, “You feel what I’m doin’, don’t you? Right there?”

She nodded, lips parted, breath trembling.

“Good. You keep lookin’ at me, and I’ma keep showin’ you how a real man makes wantin’ feel like worship.”

Smoke’s hand never left her thigh.

Still stroking.

Still coaxing.

Every pass dragged up a little higher—just enough to feel the soft heat between her legs without breaking the barrier of silk. Violet sat trembling across his lap, her breath catching at the top of each inhale, eyes locked to his like he’d told her.

“You feel that?” he asked again, voice low and smooth, “You feel how soft you get when I touch you like this?”

She nodded.

“Say it.”

She hesitated, lips barely moving, “I-I feel it…” voice tiny.

His fingers paused.

Then circled slowly at the crease of her thigh.

“Mmm. You ever felt like this before?”

She shook her head.

“Never? Say it.”

“Not…like this…”

The words were whispers, shaky, unsure—but real. And Smoke groaned under his breath, eyes darkening.

“Goddamn. That little voice drivin’ me crazy, girl. You don’t even know.”

His fingers kept moving, barely grazing the inside seam of her thighs, brushing heat without claiming it. His dick was throbbing so heavy and hard it almost made him dizzy.

“You ever touched yourself thinkin’ ‘bout a man?”

She blushed.

Pressed her legs tighter.

His fingers pushed between—not deep, just enough to remind her he could.

“Answer me.”

“Y-yes…”

“That man ever make you feel like this?”

She swallowed, eyes still on his. She didn’t want to fully answer that. Truth is, Smoke had never touched her before this.

“No. Not even close…not–not ‘til now…”

That did something to him. Something low and hungry and deep in the chest. He dragged his thumb in slow circles over the dampening fabric between her legs.

“You know I ain’t gon’ hurt you, right?”

She nodded.

“And if I keep touchin’ you like this…You gon’ let me take you wherever this leads?”

Violet blinked.

Trembled.

Then nodded again, “Yes.”

Smoke leaned in and kissed the bow at her throat again—slower this time. And when he pulled back, he didn’t move his hand.

He whispered, “Then you keep lookin’ at me. And you keep speakin’ when I ask. ’Cause I ain’t just tryna make you feel good…I’m tryna learn what you never been told you deserve.”

Smoke adjusted her gently, large hands curling around her waist as he guided her forward.

“Come on now. Straddle me.”

Violet hesitated, heart thudding in her ears. But she obeyed—knees bending, dress sliding up her thighs as she carefully perched herself on top of him, her softness settling over his lap like velvet over stone. Smoke’s hands rested on her hips now—not moving, just holding.

Grounding.

“Look at me.”

She did.

Wide eyes. Lashes fluttering. Breath caught behind her ribs.

Smoke tapped his lips with his pointer finger.

“Gimme a kiss.”

She blinked. Then leaned in slow, shy and unsure, pressing a small, delicate peck against his mouth—just a whisper of contact, barely there.

She started to pull back.

He didn’t let her go far.

One hand came up to cup the back of her neck.

“That was cute,” he spoke slow and even, “Sweet,” His thumb traced her jawline, “You ever kissed before?”

She nodded, eyes downcast.

“Yes…once.”

“Yeah?” His brow lifted, “What kind a kiss?”

Violet’s voice was soft, nearly breathless.

“The same. Just like that. A little one.”

Smoke hummed low in his throat, almost a growl.

“Mmm. You ain’t kissed for real, then. You ain’t learned what a man’s mouth can do when it wants to ruin you.”

He brought her a little closer.

Their faces inches apart.

His thumb moved to her bottom lip, stroking it gently.

“Lemme teach you.”

“…Teach me?” she whispered.

“How to kiss with tongue, baby. Real slow. Real deep. So next time you touch your lips, you remember what it feel like to lose yourself there.”

Violet’s lips parted on a shallow breath. Smoke kept her there—his hands warm at her hips, steady, anchoring her as she sat straddled over his lap in the hush behind the curtain.

Their eyes stayed locked.

She was trembling slightly, mouth still soft and cherry-red from the makeup Minnie had given her, her gaze flicking down to his lips and back again.

“Just follow me,” Smoke reassured her, “Don’t think. Just feel.”

He leaned in and kissed her again.

This time, not a peck.

He held it.

Pressed in slow, letting her feel the fullness of it.

The heat.

The shape.

His mouth was warm.

His breath tasted like whiskey and clove.

He kissed her once—just pressure. Then again, mouth parting slightly against hers.

“Loosen your lips,” he whispered against her mouth, “Don’t tighten. Let ‘em soften. Mmm, just like that.”

He kissed her again, this time deeper. Violet responded—tentative at first, her mouth moving, copying his.

Her breath caught.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice molten, “Now open up a little. Just a little…let me in.”

His tongue slid gently between her lips, slow and patient—not invasive, just inviting. And when hers flicked back in return, unsure but willing—Smoke groaned.

Low.

Rough.

Appreciative.

He kissed her longer now.

Let it stretch.

Let it warm.

Let it unravel her.

His hands stayed firm on her hips, but one moved slowly up her back, drawing her in.

Not forcing, just deepening.

“Don’t rush,” he said softly, lips brushing hers between each kiss, “This ain’t about speed. Blues never is. Use your tongue like you dancin’. Let it glide.”

She followed.

Tried again.

This time slower.

More confident.

Their tongues met.

Tasted.

Slid and circled in that hot, shared space where breath and desire blurred into one.

“That’s it,” Smoke coaxed, “You feel that?”

She nodded against his mouth.

“You feel how I taste?”

“Yes…”

“You like that?”

“Mm-hmm…”

“Say it.”

“I like it…I like how you taste.”

He kissed her again.

Slower now.

Deeper.

Like he was savoring her.

And when he finally pulled back, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, her eyes fluttered open—glazed and wide, lips wet, chest rising fast.

“You kiss me like that again,” he said low, “and I ain’t gonna stop there.”

Smoke’s hand slid from the back of her neck to the curve of her spine, palm dragging slow as he exhaled warm against her cheek.

“You sittin’ in my lap like you beggin’ for more…But I ain’t gon’ take it yet…unless you want me to…”

Violet swallowed hard. Her thighs clenched tighter against his hips. She didn’t know what to say—couldn’t find her voice if it was placed in her palm.

He looked up at her.

Studied her face.

The heat in her cheeks.

The tremble in her fingers.

“…You ready for a lil’ more?”

She opened her mouth. Then stopped.

He chuckled under his breath—not cruel. Just deep.

“Thought so.”

He leaned back in the chair slightly, legs still spread, arms relaxed—but eyes locked on her.

“Let me see how you dance.”

She blinked.

“Dance?”

“Yeah, baby. A lap dance. Like you would for a man payin’ for your time.”

Her breath caught.

“I—uh—I haven’t done many…”

“That so?” he smirked, “Then show me what you have done.”

Violet shifted slightly, uncertain. She started to move—rolling her hips slow, shoulders loose, grinding soft against his thighs the way she’d seen some of the girls do downstairs.

But Smoke?

He just watched.

No hunger in his eyes.

Not yet.

His brows drew low.

His fingers tapped once on her hip.

“Mmm. Nah.”

She froze.

“That ain’t it.”

“It’s not?”

He shook his head, slow, gaze burning, “You movin’ like you performin’. Like you tryna please a stranger.”

She looked away, embarrassed.

“Hey,” he said softly, “Don’t pout. You ain’t wrong for not knowin, “His hands slid to her waist again—gentle but firm, “Lemme show you.”

He guided her hips forward. Pressed her chest just slightly closer to his. Tilted her pelvis so the center of her heat rested exactly where he wanted it—right against the thickness of him.

“Now…move like this.”

He rolled her hips in a figure-eight, his hands controlling the rhythm.

Slow.

Grounded.

Deep.

“That’s how you do it.”

She whimpered softly—the contact making her thighs tremble, breath catching.

“You feel that?”

“Y-yes…”

“That’s what a lap dance supposed to do. Not entertain,” He leaned in, lips brushing her ear now, “It’s supposed to tease. Supposed to make a man feel the heat before he ever even touches the flame.”

His fingers dug into her waist a little harder.

“Now do it again. By yourself. Just like I showed you.”

Violet swallowed, still perched over Smoke’s lap, her body caught between tension and want. His hands slid from her waist but didn’t leave her completely—fingers resting on the tops of her thighs, thumbs stroking slow encouragement.

“Go on, baby…show me what you just learned.”

She exhaled.

Closed her eyes for half a second.

Then began to move.

Slow at first.

Tentative.

Her hips rolled in the rhythm he’d given her—not perfect, but real. A soft, deliberate sway that brushed her heat against the heavy ridge beneath his slacks.

Smoke’s breath caught.

His hands stayed at her thighs, flexing slightly.

“That’s it…just like that.”

Violet’s cheeks were hot, her lips parted, her movements trembling but steadying.

She rolled again.

This time slower.

Deeper.

Her body tilted slightly forward, just like he showed her, so her chest brushed his, so her thighs held him tight.

“You feel what you doin’ to me?” he asked, voice rough now.

She nodded, too breathless to speak.

“Mmm. That’s my girl…”

He watched her hips.

Watched the way her body started to find its own rhythm—not just mimicking his, but becoming something natural.

Instinctive.

Her eyes stayed mostly low, lashes fluttering, but once or twice she looked at him—and it nearly undid him.

“Look at me while you ride.”

She did.

Soft brown eyes, hazel sparks glowing, mouth damp from their kiss.

Her lips formed his name without sound.

“Just like that. You makin’ me proud, baby,” His voice dropped to a growl, “You dancin’ on me like you mine.”

Her hips rolled again—slower this time, firmer.

And his jaw clenched.

His hands gripped her thighs.

“Keep movin’. I wanna feel every part of you get comfortable sittin’ on what you can’t even see yet.”

She whimpered.

And still—she obeyed.

Violet’s hips slowed, trembling now, her breath shaky as she rolled against the firm, thick ridge beneath her.

She was starting to feel too much.

Too warm.

Too exposed.

Her movements paused—

Until Smoke’s hands closed over her hips again, fingers strong, grip unshaking.

“Don’t you fuckin’ stop.”

His voice was low, commanding, but never cruel. It was teetering on the edge of begging. She tried to move again, the same way, but he halted her.

Held her still.

“Widen your legs.”

Violet blinked.

“What—?”

“Wider,” he repeated, “Let me feel all that heat you been keepin’ locked up.”

She whimpered but obeyed, knees shifting out, her weight lowering, the center of her body pressing more firmly against the solid length straining inside his slacks.

Smoke growled under his breath.

“Yeah…that’s it.”

He adjusted her hips with his grip, tilting them slightly.

“Now grind on me again. Just like before. But deeper. Slower.”

She moved.

Tentative.

Unsure.

“Mmm, no—eyes on me.”

He tipped her chin up with one hand, forcing her gaze to his.

“You gon’ learn to watch me when you makin’ me feel this good.”

Violet whimpered.

Her hips rolled forward—deep, heavy, dragging her center across the thick heat of him. Violet’s body moved up and down…up and down…like she was riding a wave to shore in the Gullah coast back home.

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

His nostrils flared.

“You feel that?” he rasped, “That’s what you do to me. You sittin’ right on top of it, and I ain’t even inside you,” His voice dropped lower, “You so hot down there, baby. So fuckin’ wet I feel it through all this fabric.”

Violet moaned softly—embarrassed, breathless, but too far gone to stop.

“You ridin’ me like that and wonder why I stare at you like I’m starving?”

He let her roll again.

Then again.

Each movement slower. Deeper. Hotter.

His grip on her hips tightened, but he didn’t guide her this time—he let her find it.

And when she did…

He leaned forward, lips close to her ear.

“You keep grindin’ like that, and I’ma soak this whole chair with how wet you get.”

Violet’s breath came in soft pants now—short, sweet little catches in her throat each time her hips rocked forward.

She was moving like he taught her.

Slower now.

Deeper.

Wider.

Hands on his shoulders now.

Shaking.

Her weight pressed firm against the length of him—thick and rigid, straining beneath his slacks, the heat of her damp center soaking through both layers.

Smoke groaned.

Low.

Torn from deep in his chest.

“You feel what you doin’ to me?”

She nodded.

But it wasn’t enough. He brought her forward with a firm grip, one hand still wrapped around her waist, the other sliding up the curve of her back.

“Come here.”

He tipped her chin again, this time pulling her mouth to his.

And when he kissed her?

It wasn’t gentle.

Not anymore.

His lips were hot, firm, hungry—his tongue sliding deep, coaxing hers into rhythm, claiming her with a kiss that made her knees weak even as she sat on him. His hips lifted slightly, grinding up into her roll, making her gasp against his mouth. Soft, barely audible. Like and was longing for air.

“Mmm, that’s it,” he growled, “Grind into me like you mean it. Ride me like your little body don’t know what to do without this pressure.”

Violet whimpered.

Her hands gripped his shoulders tighter, hips working slow and deliberate, guided now by want—not just instruction. Smoke kissed her again—deeper, slower, until they were breathing each other, mouths wet, lips swollen, tongues sliding lazy between heat and promise. His hand moved lower—to the curve of her ass, squeezing through silk as he held her closer.

“Feel this dick?” he whispered, “That’s how I want you to move when I finally put you where you belong.”

Violet was trembling now.

“Can’t wait to see ya’ lil’ pretty ass unravel. From my mouth…from my fingers…from this dick you humpin’.”

Violet whimpered.

“You and them little noises,” Smoke growled.

Still straddled across Smoke’s lap, silk bunched at her thighs, fringe swinging with every grind of her hips. She moved in slow, steady circles—riding the thick, pulsing heat of him beneath her, soaking through both their layers. Her lips were red and swollen from his kiss. Her eyes—half-lidded, glassy, glowing.

Smoke’s grip tightened at her waist.

“Look at you…” he rasped, “So fuckin’ pretty when you grind like that. You feel how hard I am under you, don’t you?”

She whimpered, her hands clutching his shoulders.

“Yes…”

“Say it.”

“I feel it.”

“Mmm, yeah, you do. Ridin’ it like you tryin’ to melt it through my bottoms,” He leaned in, his mouth brushing her jaw, teeth grazing the skin, his voice low and filthy, “How’s it makin’ that little pussy feel?”

She gasped, hips faltering, embarrassed, lips trembling.

But his hands held her steady.

Insistent. Firm.

“Tell me.”

“It… it feels—good…”

“Good ain’t enough, baby. I can feel how hot you are. Soaked through that pretty dress. I wanna hear what it’s doin’ to you.”

She swallowed hard.

“It’s…it’s…it’s makin’…makiin’ my pussy… ache. I-I feel it pulsing…”

Smoke almost came all over his damn self.

“Mmm, fuck, That’s it, baby. That’s what I wanted. You ridin’ me like you need it to breathe.”

He looked at her—really looked at her.

Eyes trailing down her flushed chest, her lips parted, the little ribbon still tied at her throat like a gift meant only for him.

She was trembling in his lap.

Her thighs quivering.

Her hips stuttering.

“You close, ain’t you?” he murmured, “Feel that tension buildin’?”

“Y-yes…”

“How it feel? Full? Like you ‘bout to burst?”

“Yes,” Violet spoke with a whimper.

“Don’t run from it, baby. Grind deeper.”

She obeyed—hips rolling slower, harder, pressing herself right over the rigid length of him, dragging her soaked heat in tight, aching circles.

“That’s my girl…” he whispered, “You take it. Let go on me. I want you to cum ridin’ my dick like it’s already inside you.”

She moaned—high, soft, almost helpless.

Her hands gripped his shirt.

Her body locked up—tight, quivering, grinding once, twice more and then—

She came.

Shaking.

Silk soaked.

Mouth parted.

Eyes wide with the pleasure she never knew she could feel without being touched there.

Smoke held her through it, mouth close to her ear.

“That’s it, sweet girl. You just came for me. I ain’t even pulled your panties to the side yet.”

He kissed her jaw.

Then her lips.

Then held her—tight, possessive, proud.

“I…I ain’t never felt nothin’ like that before.”

Smoke cupped the back of her neck, pulling her forehead to his.

“You gon’ feel more tonight. I’ll be at your room in a little while. But when I come, you best be ready for me. You hear?”

She nodded again, lips parted, trying to find her breath.

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke brushed a kiss to her cheek—delicate but possessive.

“Don’t you take off that ribbon. And don’t you go touchin’ yourself neither. That’s mine now.”

Violet spoke softly, “I’ll…I’ll wait for you.”

He let her slide off his lap, letting his hands trail down her thighs as she stood.

Smoke kissed her forehead, “Good girl.”

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

It Should Have Been You

Imagine: Pearline is Stack’s wife. She finds out the hard way when her husband continues his adulterous behavior.

Pearline Moore ONE-SHOT

Warnings: Smut. Angst, LOTS of dirty talk.

There is a humid, subtropical climate afoot in The South. Everyone takes shelter, and those with homes on raised beams above the waters that flow from the Mississippi River are the more fortunate. The rich, agricultural soil of The Delta is muddy and automobiles have a hard time getting through. A characteristic of alluvial deposition in deep water, where the river actively builds new land through sediments.

Shops close downtown, church’s postponed their congregations, and the plantation fields are overgrown and empty of sharecroppers picking cotton. The heavy showers beat down on rustic, tin roofs and bounced off the edges of iron tubs. Farm life make aggravated noises, stomping and shifting in their designated stalls surrounded by haystacks and various tools.

The weather didn’t keep Pearline Jacqueline Moore away from a local pharmacy owned by a Black Pharmacist named Robert Browning Jr.

Pearline wore her favorite riding boots, a trench coat, and a cloak hat over her moisturized curls with the help of Annie Minerva Turnbo Malone’s Poro Products. Her lush skin glistened from sweat and water as she hurried through downtown from her parked automobile. Pearline shoved past the doors to the pharmacy, the tiny bell above dinging softly, alerting Dr. Browning Jr. as he busied himself within a back room that he used as a storage unit.

She brushed her boots off on a mat as best as she could to keep mud from tracking the floor. Pearline removed her cloak hat, twisting it in her hands nervously, not realizing that she was ringing it out onto the floor. Her riding boots squeaked as she walked further into the pharmacy.

It was a bustling community hub with a strong focus on soda fountains and sundries. While they sold medicines, they also served as social gathering places, particularly during Prohibition, with soda fountains becoming popular. Pharmacists were not just dispensing medications but also providing advice and even counter-prescribing.

Pearline grabbed a basket and loaded it with random items, trying to appear less suspicious on why she was really there. She slipped past a newspaper rack and peeked at the headline on the front in bold, onyx print.

“Mrs. Moore? What you doing out in this awful weather?”

Pearline snapped her eyes towards the front counter.

Dr. Browning Jr. removed his reading glasses and stood dapper in a brown and beige suit with a maroon bow tie. He got rid of his suit jacket and replaced it with an apron, sleeves rolled up past his elbows revealing skin the color of pepper corn. He had a full goatee with a mustache that curled at the tips, sprinkled with gray hair and the hair on his head was close cut. He was a little over fifty years old and married to a stunning black woman from Alabama.

“Evening, Dr. Browning. My pantry is looking a little low. And I…I need some Arsenic to help with these pests hanging around my garden.”

Dr. Browning Jr. accepted Pearline’s basket and began ringing her up at his cash register. Pearline shifted her weight, anxious eyes looking around as if she were being watched.

“Would you like a vial of the poison or an entire bottle?”

“…I’m sorry?” Pearline inquired, seemingly lost as a nervous smile graced her heart–shaped lips.

“I’d suggest a bottle if the pest problem is serious. It’s quite pricy though, Mrs. Moore.”

“Oh! Oh…I think I should go ahead and buy the bottle. You never know, I may need it again.”

Pearline rushed to open her change purse, digging inside to grab a crisp twenty dollar bill. Dr. Browning Jr disappeared within his supply room for all but two minutes. He returned with a bottle of Arsenic, placing it within a box before gently covering it with a paper bag.

“That’ll be eighteen dollars.”

Pearline’s heart raced.

Pearline shifted her gaze towards the door, making sure no one was behind her.

“Mrs. Moore?—”

“Sorry,” she handed him the twenty dollars, “Keep the change. Thank you, Dr. Browning.”

Pearline accepted her bag, carrying it hugged to her slim–thick frame as she backed away.

“You need some help? I’m surprised Stack let you out in this mess.”

The mention of her husband’s name gave her pause.

It also filled her with rage.

“He’s a busy man, Dr. Browning. You know that. I won’t keep you. Have a good rest of your night.”

“You do the same, Mrs. Moore.”

Pearline entered her home, quickly shrugging off her coat to hang on a rack and she took a seat on a wine red chesterfield ottoman within the front foyer of her home to remove her boots. The rain had turned to drizzle by the time she returned home. Pearline wore one of many silky slips, a scandalous choice for wear in public, but she was on a mission.

Pearline lived in one of few luxury homes in The Delta with her husband, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore. It was surrounded by rolling hills and they had their own greenhouse where Pearline enjoyed spending time sipping herbal tea and tending to her botanical garden. Stack had it built for her as an anniversary gift because he knew how much it meant to her. Reminding her of days spent with her grandmother. A Botanist and Holistic Nurse.

Pearline entered her kitchen and sat her grocery bag down on her dining table. She scanned the mess she’d created hours before, old photos cut into pieces, scattered along the floor. Her husband’s dress shirt resting over a dining chair with lipstick stains on the collar. A gut wrenching reminder of what Stack had put her through.

Pearline was every man’s dream girl. She’s beautiful, can sing, built like a brick house, and smart. She’d turned down many boys, all except Elias Moore. He was a little older than her by nine years, but when he set his eyes on her, he made it his business to court her. Stack was a man that moved with a carefree personality. He joked and smiled and charmed everyone in his path. Deep dimples and a smooth tongue.

The opposite of his stoic, quiet, observant brother. Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore was known for bringing the smoke; the smoldering heat. You didn’t want to get to close for comfort and cross him. Smoke had no problems laying you out with a gun or his fists. You’d think he was made of railroad steel and cast iron.

Pearline was drawn to Stack’s playful energy and the amount of passion and chemistry they shared was like no other. Pearline didn’t care that she was falling head over T-straps for a criminal, Stack made her feel special. He bought her the lifestyle she’d always dreamed of. That made women envious, especially when he married her before leaving to Chicago. They had a beautiful barn wedding where all of The Delta attended.

But, Pearline had to learn the hard way that her husband was a rolling stone. He couldn’t keep his married dick to himself. Whispers of women he bedded while vowed to Pearline sparked heated arguments and lies that rolled off his slick tongue and past his plump lips. One woman living in Little Rock, Arkansas had him by the balls.

Mary.

And her lipstick is what stained her husband’s shirt.

Pearline grew tired of crying. Tired of sleepless nights and waiting for him to return home. Tired of the manipulation and the constant drama filtering back to her. Her so–called girlfriend’s side eyed her. Her mother chastised her for being weak and not going after her man like a proper wife should.

She thought about what it would be like to make him hurt. There was no man in town that she could even think to fuck as a get back. Elias ‘Stack’ Moore and his twin are practically gods within The Delta. Sleeping with some random man would only make her look like the fool. She wanted to kick him off his high horse. And her anger drove her to buy some poison.

And bake it into a chocolate pie.

It’s a luscious chocolate custard resting on a flaky, almost salty crust, topped with a springy meringue. For Pearline, it’s la pièce de résistance and whether times are good or times are bad, it’s always welcome and appropriate.

Stack loved her chocolate pie. She made it for him once a week. If she didn’t stop him, he’d sit and eat the entire thing for himself. At first, she thought to poison his moonshine, but that would only contaminate the entire batch since he prepared it in barrels with Smoke.

Pearline put away her groceries and then she grabbed the poison, setting to work on the chocolate pie.

Ingredients for the pie:

4 tablespoons cocoa or 1 1/2 squares baking chocolate

3/4 cups sugar

5 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1/4 teaspoon salt

2 egg yolks, lightly beaten

1 1/2 cups whole milk

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

1 tablespoon of butter

Ingredients for the meringue:

2 egg whites

1/8 teaspoon kosher salt

4 tablespoons sugar

And a splash—maybe a cup of Arsenic.

As she moved about the kitchen, the smell of rain and grass brought in by the humid wind through her open kitchen windows, an apron secure around her petite waist, Pearline hummed to calm her nerves down and stop herself from crying.

She hummed a song she’d written.

Poison was seen as a discreet way to eliminate someone, with arsenic being a particularly popular choice due to its tastelessness and ability to mimic natural illness.

No one would be able to suspect. It could be something as simple as bad moonshine.

And Stack drank a lot of it. He was well on his way to becoming the next Delta Slim.

Smoke couldn’t stop his brother, that would make him a hypocrite. He had his own addiction to smoking.

Flour painted her cheek and chocolate splattered her apron. Pearline wiped sweat from her forehead as she stared down at the pie. She placed it on a towel before washing her hands to prepare dinner.

She couldn’t believe she was going to kill her husband.

Pearline dressed in a gold silk burlesque flapper cocoon dress with batwing sleeves and a deep plunge in the front. It glided across her skin and molded into the shape of her frame as she walked, the long train dragging along behind her elegantly. Her curly hair was styled in an updo with tendrils framing her oval face. She plucked away unruly hairs from her thick brows to keep them neat and smoothed coca lip balm on her lips.

Chandelier earrings in, skin the color of espresso, she heard the front door open from her place at her vanity. She listened, making out distant laughter and the familiar sound of her husband’s voice. He wasn’t alone. Pearline took meditating breaths to calm herself. She’d already done the deed. It was only a matter of time before he cut himself a slice.

Revenge. Sweet revenge. A desire for freedom. Divorce wasn’t even an option. She wouldn’t get a penny. He needed to die and she would collect all his money and move up north. Maybe New York. Sing in the Cotton Club. Make a new life for herself.

Pearline spritzed perfume on her skin, activating the squeeze bulb, opening with dewy gardenia, its floral heart blooming with African neroli before settling into the intoxicating depth of a merlot wine accord. The essence of magnetic beauty and luminous grace.

One final look at her reflection, Pearline made her way down to the kitchen. In the living room, helping themselves to bourbon from a drink cart, were Smoke and Stack. Stack poured from a decanter, filling Smoke’s glass tumbler full. He did the same for himself. They whispered, smoke puffing on a cigarette as he nodded his head in response to Stack’s scheming words.

Smoke drew his eyes towards the stairs, eyes that took in the sight of Pearline. She looked down at him, meeting his intense gaze, looking away to focus on her husband who not once stopped to acknowledge her. It took for Smoke to nudge his little brother for Stack to finally pay attention.

That cut deep. Pearline flicked her gaze away to her feet covered in kitten heels. She released a shutter.

“Baby…”

Stack left Smoke’s side to approach Pearline. She gave him a practiced smile before opening her arms to hug him. Stack buried his face against her neck, inhaling her perfume while his hands rubbed and groped her.

“Mmm, you smelling good. Looking good too,” Stack leaned back to admire her, “Beautiful, baby,” Stack kissed her hands, “I missed ya’.”

“Missed you,” Pearline bat her lashes at him and tucked her chin with a coy smile, “You hungry?”

“I sure am. Is it aight if Smoke stay for dinner?”

Pearline drew her attention to Smoke. He perched himself against the fire place, lighting the end of his cigarette, orange flame vibrant. He looked at her with this expression that Pearline couldn’t quite understand. He was always unreadable.

“Only if it’s okay with you, sis–in–law,” Smoke spoke with a rasp.

“Of course.”

Pearline hadn’t expected an extra guest. Now, she had to figure out how to get the pie out of the way. Smoke could sense things. He’s observant. He can probably tell Pearline was being sneaky and devious. Seeing as he possesses those exact qualities. She inwardly panicked, wanting to escape from Stack’s hold to dump the pie in the garbage.

“Saw that chocolate pie in there, was about to dip my finger in it but Smoke stopped me before I could…”

Sweat trickled down her temple. She looked between both twins, smiling as best as she could and laughing in a flirty way she’d always had. Stack kissed Pearline’s lips, humming softly as he smiled.

“I got the finest woman in all the fuckin’ world.” He boisterously said, flashing his golds, “Let’s go eat us some food!”

“I’ll set the table, ya’ll go on and drink. I’ll call to supper when it’s ready…”

Pearline turned to walk away, hips switching. She couldn’t control the fact that she had a dump truck. Stack popped her on the underside of her behind, the motion causing her deep brown cakes to jiggle around. Her breath hitched and she swatted Stack’s hand away with a roll of her eyes.

She gave Smoke a sideways glance, heat rising over her face as he watched the two of them.

Pearline entered the kitchen and practically sprinted over to the pie. She exhaled with relief, glad to find it untouched. Pearline lifted the pie and hesitantly tossed it into the trash. She paced for a minute, trying her best to come up with a lie.

She choked on her words slightly as she spoke.

“I–I gotta make a new pie!”

Stack entered the kitchen with his brows pinched together.

“What? Why?”

He searched the kitchen for the pie before walking over to the trash. He lifted the lid, peering inside. The pie was on its side and sliding out of the dish.

“It–uh–it was covered in flies. I saw a couple flies on it.”

Her eyes fell on the open window.

“Must of gotten in through the window,” Pearline released a nervous laugh, “No worries, Stack, won’t take me long.”

“Damn…”

Smoke leaned against the entryway to the kitchen. He removed the cigarette from between his lips, eyes dancing back and forth between Pearline and Stack. His eyes fell to the cupboard beneath the sink, squinting slightly.

“I was looking forward to it, Pearlie. You sure you wanna make another?” Stack asked with a disappointed look.

“Won’t take me long. Promise.”

Stack sucked his teeth.

“Aight, baby…me and Smoke gone be in there listening to some tunes while we talk business. Holla when you finished.”

Stack pecked Pearline on the cheek before leaving the kitchen.

Smoke lingered.

“Errythang aight, Pearlie?” Smoke asked with a hushed tone.

“Yes. Why you askin’?” Pearline replied, eyes darting away from his.

Smoke’s eyes roamed the kitchen before focusing back on Pearline with a penetrating stare, “Listen, Stack—”

“Don’t.”

Pearline held up a shaky finger. She shut her eyes to hold back tears.

“Smoke!”

“Be there a minute, nigga. Be patient!” Smoke shouted back.

He gave Pearline one final look before leaving her alone.

She should have never thrown that pie away.

Hearing his laughter enraged her.

Knowing that he was fucking his octoroon whore inflated her anger.

What the fuck that bitch got on Pearline? What she got over her?

Privilege

Freedom

Fare skin

Loose hair

The beauty standard of America

And Stack craved it. Even though he’d fucked around with other black women, the minute Mary crossed paths with him after she returned to The Delta to bury her mom, Stack wanted that old thing back.

Pearline baked a new pie, silently crying.

But the chaos in the kitchen with her constant stomping and slamming of things had Stack’s attention.

Pearline set the table, almost breaking their fine China.

Stack took longs strides, oxfords loud as he walked.

“The fuck goin’ on, Pearlie?”

He snatched his toothpick from his mouth, glaring at her.

“Diner’s ready!”

Pearline snatched her apron off and tossed it onto the counter aggressively. Smoke trailed in behind his brother, eyes wide and unblinking. He tracked Pearline’s footsteps, jaw clenching.

“I can see the table is set,” Stack swept his concerned eyes over the plates of food, “But why you slamming shit? Got something you wanna say?”

Pearline whirled around, a look of surprise and confusion etched into her pretty face.

“ME?” She inquired with a loud tone.

“Yeah, YOU.”

“Wow…After all the shit you been putting me through. And you askin’ ME if I got something to say?!”

Smoke raised his hands to diffuse the situation.

“Let’s just eat now, aight? Save this shit for later.”

Pearline pinched the bridge of her nose. Stack sat down at the dining table. Pearline almost shivered when Smoke lightly grasped her arm to get her attention. She held his gaze, fighting hard not to break down.

“Come eat, Pearlie…”

“I’m not hungry.”

Stack’s fork and knife clattered to the table. He chewed the rest of his smothered pork chop down before turned his attention to his wife.

“Whatever it is, just say it, woman. I ain’t been messin’ around!”

“Yes you HAVEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!”

Smoke and Stack stared at her.

“Liar…fucking lying ass…piece of shit…”

Pearline opened her pantry and snatched up the shirt with lipstick stains. She marched over, balled it up, and threw it at Stack. He caught it, opening the shirt and when he noticed the lipstick stains, he froze.

“CARE TO TELL ME WHY THE FUCK YOU GOT LIPSTICK ON YOUR SHIRT?! A SHIRT I DISCOVERED WHILE TAKING IN DRY CLEANING?! A SHIRT YOU TRIED TO HIDE FROM ME?! YOU CHEATING BASTARD!”

Smoke fought to keep Pearline back. Stack stared off into space, no words, no more lies. What could he say to get himself out of this?

Pearline shouted between cries of heartbreak, “HOW COULD YOU? AFTER EVERYTHING? WHY DO YOU KEEP GOING BACK TO HER?! WHY, STACK?!”

Pearline snatched a butcher knife from the counter and launched it at Stack. He quickly pushed away from the table, the knife whizzing past his cheek and lodging in the wall. His chest rose and feel with rapid breaths. Smoke grabbed her up by her upper arms to keep her still.

“You crazy?! Tryna kill me?! That shit could’ve been in my head!!!!” Stack yelled, spit flying.

“PEARLIE! ENOUGH!” Smoke boomed.

“Get off me, Smoke!”

“You throwing knives, the hell, Pearlie?!” Smoke shook her to stop her from writhing.

“LET GO OF ME!”

Pearline slapped Smoke. Slapped him across his handsome face. He clutched his cheek that stung from her strikes.

“STOP PROTECTING HIM! HE’S A GROWN ASS MAN! YOU KNOW WHAT HE DOES AND YOU JUST LET HIM DO IT! FUCK YOU. BOTH OF YOU!”

Stack stood, tossing the shirt over his unfinished meal. He was ashamed to even look her in the eye.

“BE A MAN AND FACE ME, ELIAS! OWN IT!” Pearline laid into him with venom, “DO YOU LOVE HER?!”

“Pearlie—”

Pearline grabbed the chocolate pie and catapulted it, watching it hit Stack in the chest. He rocked back on his heels, arms outstretched, his eyes bugged out and his lips curled into a menacing pout.

“ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!!!!!!”

Pearline tried to catch her breath. Stack looked at her with wavering eyes. He titled his head down at his oxfords.

“I…Pearline…”

She gasped.

“You do…”

Smoke shut his eyes.

Stack gave her a cowardly look.

“You can’t even be a man and say it. You’re such a coward, Elias. Why did you marry me? To trap me? To have a notch on your belt? Afraid I’d find a man that really loves me? Your cracker slut is married to a cracker man In Arkansas and yet you can’t stay away from her and be loyal to me?”

Pearline clutched her chest as if she were going into cardiac distress.

“Am I not beautiful? What did I do to deserve this—”

“I have urges, baby. I’m sorry—I know it ain’t the apology ya’ want, but I…can’t control myself. I hate that I keep hurting ya’.”

“No,” Pearline shook her head as tears fell, “you ain’t sorry. You sorry you got caught.”

Pearline folded her arms over her chest. She exhaled, wiping tears away with her fingers.

She sniffled, “And the sad part is…I love you.”

She locked eyes with him. Smoke didn’t pull his attention away from her face for a second.

The grandfather clock on the wall within the living room ticked and ticked.

“I want both of ya’ll to leave.”

“Pearlie—”

“Fuck you, Elias. You don’t get to be sweet and charming. I want you to leave. NOW. Before I grab that knife from the wall, and cut your fucking dick off and feed it to you instead of this food I made!!!!!!”

Stack’s mouth was agape.

Smoke stepped aside.

Pearline made as if she were going to leave but instead she jumped on Stack, beating her fists on his back. Stack tried to grab her arms while shielding himself from being struck in the face.

“PEARLINE!”

Smoke picked her up and sat her on the counter.

“Get your shit, Stack. GO. We leaving.” Smoke ordered.

“Let her blow steam. I deserve it.” Stack said.

“Oh, so now you want her to kick your ass? She wanna kill you, nigga! Unless you wanna be scraps for pigs, I suggest you get your shit and leave!”

Stack looked from the dining table, to his wife, parting his lips to speak. Instead, he walked away, climbing the stairs to pack a luggage.

Smoke looked at Pearline, “If I let you go. Will you stay here while he gettin’ his shit?”

Pearline nodded her head slow.

Smoke released her arms and stepped back. He lit a cigarette and didn’t take his eyes off of Pearline.

“I’m real sorry, Pearlie. I know that don’t mean shit to you comin’ from me…but you don’t deserve this shit. You too good of a woman. Always been. I tried to get him to come home to you…I did…he can’t control himself with that bitch and…I hate to see ya’ hurting.”

���Smoke,” Pearline was exhausted, “You could have told me. You could have come to me. I need to be alone. Just leave. Please leave.”

She hung her head and started bawling. Her cries broke Smoke. Deep, sorrowful, body shaking. Her tears leaked to her dress. Smoke wanted to comfort her. He tried to touch her and Pearline flinched.

Stack’s footsteps caused Smoke to back off. He locked eyes with his little brother, glaring at him. Stack turned away, luggage in his hands.

Smoke allowed his eyes to sweep over her. He didn’t care if she fought him off. He didn’t care if she slapped him.

Smoke positioned himself in front of her, grabbed her face, and planted a kiss to her forehead.

That made her cry harder.

Word spread like famine.

And Pearline refused to feed into the nosy crowd.

She walked around town with her head held high and hips swaying seductively. No matter how hurt she felt, she looked ravishing.

Pearline entered The Chow’s negro store, picking up oranges and lemons, checking to see if they were a good batch before buying them. Bo Chow walked out from a room with a notepad and a pen behind his ear. Little Lisa took care of the line. Pearline helped herself to a jar of strawberry jam.

“Mrs. Moore! You’s doing alright?”

Bo pulled Pearline into a hug.

“I’m doing fine, Bo. Hello Lisa,” Pearline waved to her, “Grace good?”

“Is! She’s expecting.” Bo said with a side smile, glossy black hair falling over his forehead handsomely.

“Oh! My! Congratulations, Bo!”

Pearline beamed.

“I’m hoping for a boy this time.” Bo said.

“Just be glad for a healthy bundle of joy.” Pearline said.

She stood in line behind four people until it was her time to be helped. After paying for her items, she waved goodbye to Bo and Lisa before leaving the store.

The rain had finally stopped and in its place was that humid, Mississippi air. The sun shone down brightly, heating Pearline’s skin. She found her car and got in, heading back home.

Driving back, Pearline pulled up to her home, finding a truck she recognized immediately. Pearline stared at the truck, eyes fluttering with resentment. It’s been damn near two weeks.

Pearline couldn’t deny that she missed her husband, but at the price of her own happiness? Why should she have to put up with his constant disregard for her feelings?

It won’t last, Mary is just a phase.

She hated that she had that voice in her head.

After another minute, Pearline exited her car and with her groceries she walked up to her home. Pearline didn’t pay the truck any mind, expecting Stack to shout her name from the window and beg for forgiveness.

Instead, she caught a whiff of tobacco.

Pearline turned, eyes falling on Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore with his back against the truck. He stomped out his cigarette. He clasped his hands in front of him and over his crotch. He stared at her beyond the brim of his blue hat. Smoke pushed off his truck, one hand clutching onto the opening of his tweed suit jacket as he approached her with methodical eyes and careful steps.

A breeze picked up, ruffling the bottom of her fitted, purple, floral–printed lapel dress. She wore white T–straps on her feet, and a hat with lace gloves to match the colors in her dress. Pearls decorated her ears.

“How you be?” Smoke finally spoke.

“…I’m okay.”

Smoke stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up at Pearline.

“Stack stayin’ wit me. He not there right now.” Smoke revealed.

Pearline tilted her head, eyes searching for the inevitable truth, “He’s with her?”

Smoke rubbed his hands together, eyes roaming the ground.

“She came knockin’. He answered.”

Pearline stood still and watched Smoke.

“Say sum’, Pearlie.”

Pearline exhaled.

“I want a divorce.”

Smoke frowned slightly.

“I’m tired, Smoke. I deserve better.”

Pearline turned away from Smoke to open her door. She sat her groceries down at her feet. Smoke climbed the steps, picking up the bag. Pearline didn’t say a word. The door swung open and Smoke followed her inside. He walked past the front foyer and disappeared into the kitchen.

Pearline sat her purse down and removed her gloves and hat.

She walked into her kitchen and her footsteps slowed down when she caught Smoke putting away her food.

“Smoke, I can handle it.”

“No, no, no, now…you have a seat.”

Smoke pointed to a dining chair. Pearline took a seat, crossing her ankles modestly and folded her hands within her lap all ladylike. Her back was straight, body screaming confidently, but her eyes told a different tale. She was sad. Lonely. Torn.

Smoke opened her icebox to pour her a glass of lemonade. He then grabbed a napkin, walking over to her and placing it on the table. He removed his hat and sat it on the table. Pearline didn’t say a word as she grabbed the glass, helping herself.

“Why you come checkin’ up on me?”

Pearline searched Smoke’s eyes.

“…Because ya’ mean a lot to me.” Smoke replied.

Pearline scuffed, “Sure I do, Smoke. Poor old Pearline.”

Pearline stood, smoothing out her dress as she walked towards her pantry, grabbing a bottle of wine.

“I need something stronger…”

She drank from the bottle. Smoke watched her with a single brow raised. They sat in silence, Smoke with a cigarette and Pearline with her almost empty bottle of wine. She grew warm and relaxed, tipsy and just as sad and angry as before.

“I wonder if Stack thought of her every time he made love to me…”

He blew smoke from his nose.

“Don’t wonder. Stop thinking about it.”

Pearline rolled her eyes at Smoke.

“Serious…”

Pearline sucked on her bottom lip to stop it from quivering.

“Smoke, am I not good enough? I’ve done things for this man…to please him…make him happy.”

Smoke glanced at her sideways while reclined back in the dining chair, legs wide.

“What things?”

Pearline laughed bitterly, “Doesn’t matter. And it’s personal.”

“You said the shit.” Smoke replied defensively.

“I’m just talkin’. Okay? Venting.”

“And I’m here to listen. Aight?”

Pearline stared at him intently.

“…sexual things…”

Smoke hummed, “Okay…” He made a gesture for her to proceed, “And?”

“…Settled here for seven years. Dealt with all the bullshit. Rubbed his feet and massaged his shoulders. Put my dreams aside to help him fulfill his. Gave him every hole to use…”

Smoke twisted his lips as he listened.

“I thought it made him happy. I guess not.”

Smoke studies his cigarette, the wheels in his head turning.

He licked his lips, “Can I tell ya’ a secret?”

Pearline looked at Smoke curiously.

“You? Opening up?” Pearline teased.

“It’s about you. So I don’t see why not.”

Pearline shifted to face him, hip jutted out enticingly. She propped her elbow onto the table, resting her chin against her palm.

“Well?” She uttered.

“I ain’t want Stack to marry you.”

A pregnant pause.

“…what? Smoke? You serious?”

Pearline didn’t know how to interpret what Smoke revealed. She drew her thick brows together, intrigued by what he said. And the feeling of butterflies.

“Why the hell not?” Pearline questioned.

Smoke struggled to answer her question. He puffed on his cigarette, smoke billowing from between his thick lips. His hand shook slightly until he flexed his chest to gain control of his muscles. He finally met her gaze, never looking away as he parted his lips to speak.

“Cause you should’ve been mine.”

Pearline was paralyzed with shock. She couldn’t believe Elijah’s words. All this time? He’d wanted her too? No way.

“Smoke–Smoke I–I–you’ve always felt like this?”

Smoke gave her a sideways look with unwavering eyes.

“I have. Still do.”

Pearline almost dropped her wine bottle.

She shot up from her seat.

“Go, Smoke.”

Smoke rose to his feet.

“You don’t feel the same?”

Pearline couldn’t believe his words.

“NO!” She shouted with a disbelieving expression.

“I don’t believe ya’, Pearlie. The way ya’ look at me…the way ya’ always looked at me.”

“Stop…”

Pearline brushed past Smoke, climbing the stairs to her room. Her vision blurred with tears. She could hear his footsteps behind her.

“Pearlie…”

Smoke moved around her swiftly, blocking her path.

“I love you—”

“HOW DARE YOU?!”

Pearline shoved at his chest, no use because he was too solid and strong to move. Smoke watched her fire herself out before locking her wrists in his firm grip. He leaned in, eyes boring into hers like he was staring into her soul.

“Go on and beat away, Pearlie. I mean what I say. I’m in love wit’ ya. And you deserve to be happy. I care about my brother, but I ain’t gonna keep fighting this feeling. And ain’t no way I’m a let you sit up here thinkin’ you ain’t the prize.”

Pearline blinked up at Smoke. He stroked her cheek with his thumb. Softly. Delicately. Reassuringly.

“…You bastard. How dare you take advantage?”

Smoke cocked his head.

“I’m pouring my heart out, and you say that?”

Pearline slaps Smoke. Hard.

“GET. OUT.”

Smoke growled, top lip snarled.

“You gon’ stop hitting me.” He warned.

“You deserve it.” She sassed.

Smoke toward over Pearline. She jumped slightly.

“So, you don’t feel the same?” Smoke’s husky voice challenged her.

“No.” Pearline replied, looking down his body with a slow sigh.

Smoke stood firm. Pearline peered up at him.

“…I’ll leave. But I’m still keepin’ my eye on you.”

Smoke gave her a once over before making his way down the stairs. Pearline’s chest heaved up and down with a shaky exhale.

Some nights later, Pearline got dressed to perform a new song she’d written titled Pale Pale Moon. She spent majority of the day emptying the closets and drawers of Stack’s things, part of her wanting to burn them but deciding it wasn’t worth it. Instead, drove down to a local thrift store and dropped the bags off without a backward glance.

He’d taken the things that meant more to him. His money. His jewelry. Leaving behind the one person he vowed never to leave. She’d done enough crying herself to sleep. And yet she couldn’t get Smoke out of her head. His confession.

Pearline deep down admired Smoke beyond him being her brother–in–law. She’d always known him to respect women and he always treated Pearline kindly. He would listen to her speak about things he didn’t understand, like how to grow certain flowers. He always took up for her, checked in on her, and stared at her with What Pearline now understood as deep affection.

She was seen with Smoke.

That’s all she ever wanted.

“Stop talking to her like that, Stack for I beat ya’ ass.”

“You ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask, Pearlie.”

“You just as important to me, Pearlie.”

Everything he’d ever said to her. Every hug, every smile, every look. All of it was much more. Much deeper.

Messenger’s gave her a standing ovation.

Delta Slim and his band played to the words of Pale Pale Moon.

Pearline felt alive. Her lush skin so smooth like the sultry blues music.

She needed a distraction from Smoke.

But his words the other day…

He told her that he was in love with her. Told her to her face and with no shame.

Pearline was dropped off by a friend to her home since she’d been drinking. She waved goodbye before entering, shutting and locking the door behind her. Pearline braced herself against the wall, removing her shoes. She walked the length of her front foyer and the sound of a lighter flickering caused her to grab a vase, ready to lunge it at whoever broke into her home.

Vase raised above her head, she turned the corner.

“Who’s there—”

Standing tall and wearing a soft blue shirt rolled up his arms and black slacks, was Smoke.

“You broke into my house?”

Smoke dug into his pocket, swinging a key ring in front of her face.

“Put that shit down before you break it.” Smoke ordered.

“Why should I? You show up unannounced.”

Smoke took it upon himself to take it from her. Pearline didn’t fuss. Smoke placed it back where she’d gotten it from.

“You performed at Messenger’s?”

Pearline’s eyes swept over his body. She drew her shoulders back, strutting past him, removing the silk scarf draped over the front of her neck and down her back. Smoke caught it before it hit the floor. He folded it neatly and placed it on the coffee table, patting it with his fingertips. Pearline gazed at him.

“You look lovely, Pearlie.”

“What do you want, Smoke?” Pearline asked with an exasperated look.

“The truth.”

“It’s late. You can see yourself out…”

Pearline crossed her arms and poked her hip out.

Smoke motioned towards the kitchen with his head, “What that arsenic for?”

Pearline’s arms dropped.

“Mhm,” He puffed on his cigarette, “You tried to poison my brother with that pie.”

Pearline exhaled, “I did. No use in lying. Maybe you shouldn’t have stopped him from sampling it.” Pearline replied with her voice laced with unshed tears, “Don’t matter, I ain’t gonna poison him.”

“Cause of me.”

“So? I chickened out, Smoke.”

“Why you keeping it?” Smoke probed with narrow eyes.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Pearlie…” Smoke clenched his jaw, “I care about ya’…And I need to know if ya’ feeling the same.”

Pearline bounced her foot.

“You won’t stop unless I tell you…”

Pearline locked eyes with Smoke.

“Smoke..I…I should have picked you. Then I know I’d be treated better.”

A single tear fell.

“You can still chose me—”

“It’s too late for that. Won’t do us any favors acting on those feelings, now would it?”

Smoke disagreed.

“It’ll do us more than just a favor, baby…”

Pearline nibbled on her bottom lip.

Smoke strolled up on Pearline. Her breath hitched, eyes closing when his body pressed against hers. He placed a hand on the nape of her neck, tilting her head. Smoke leaned in, closing the distance between them. Pearline parted her lips ever so slightly, giving Smoke and entry. His fluffy lips touched hers with uncertainty. Pearline snaked her hands up his chest and secured her arms around his shoulders.

Smoke intensified the kiss. Soft pecks turned into open–mouthed movements. Pearline’s skin tingled with desire. Smoke’s chest bloomed with passion. He’d longed to taste her. He regretted not making a move on Pearline when he should have. His little brother had always been the smooth talker, the lady magnet.

The sound of lips smacking and soft breaths.

The feel of his rough hands gliding over her hips to grab ass.

Pearline pulling him in closer with her hands clutching onto his shirt.

They kissed their way towards the stairs. Smoke broke away from her lips to pick Pearline up. She wrapped her legs around him, diving in for more. Their tongues battled for dominance as Smoke climbed up the stairs. They stumbled, knocked against walls, and snatched off each other’s clothes all the way to her room.

“I need you,” Pearline whispered longingly.

“I’m here…I’m right here…”

Pearline wiggled out of Smoke’s arms and she dropped to her knees in a flash. He snatched off his shirt and watched her pull his belt from the loops. She tossed it to the floor and with her eyes on his, Pearline opened his zipper and unbuttoned his pants.

“Let me pleasure you, Elijah.”

“Go on, bring him out.” Smoke commanded.

Pearline did just that. She hummed sensuously. It was heavy in her hand and warm to the touch. She jerked him a little, watching the way he licked his lips down at her. Pearline wrapped her lips around his head and started sucking with no hands.

“Ahhh, fuck…”

Pearline gathered spit on her tongue as she sucked. Smoke watched like he was staring down at a circus act. Pearline was doing tricks he ain’t never experienced in his thirty plus years on earth. She made spit bubbles and slurped it back up. Her tongue curled around his shaft like a slick tentacle. She would pop her lips off and spit on it. Over and over. Getting down right disgusting like some street walker.

“This how you do it, Pearlie? FUCK.”

She attacked his balls with gusto. Moaning and whimpering with a mouth full of his nuts and big dick. Smoke couldn’t believe his eyes. He guessed the saying pretty girls love sucking dick that his little brother always said was true. He had a woman at home that did it like this? Ain’t no other woman come close to Pearline.

“Pearlie…don’t stop…”

She inhaled his dick and stroked him with two hands. Bawdy blues and all. Smoke weaved his fingers through her soft curls and controlled her movements. He fed her mouth some dick since she worked so hard to make him cum. His eyes turned puppyish and he dragged his bottom lip between his teeth.,

“I’m a cum so fucking hard!”

Pearline did a disappearing act with his dick. Smoke almost saw heaven. He grunted deep with his release. Not a single drop wasted.

He stared at her as she licked him clean. He backed away, slapping his tip on her wet tongue.

“So nasty wit’ it. You suck me like I’m ya’ man.”

“I’m passionate about giving, Smoke. It’s my favorite job,” Pearline licked her lips, eyes staring at his dick like it was made of the purest gold, “Especially when it’s nice and big like this. One thing about me,” Pearline stroked him and tongue kissed his tip between words, “I was known for being the best dick sucker. I’m not ashamed to admit…when you’re good at something,” Pearline ran her tongue from base to tip, “you keep going…and going…”

“Dayum…”

She was sucking on him again. Smoke stroked her face, caressed her hair, told her how pretty she looked, and moaned her name.

“You nice and thick in my mouth again, Elijah. Wanna give me what I’m workin’ so hard for?” She teased.

“Pearline! Ahhhh…”

She gulped his cum down again, giggling at his face.

“Get up.”

Smoke didn’t wait for Pearline to do it, he picked her up himself. Smoke spun her around and let his hands explore her naked body. Toned and thick at the same time. He watched her ass recoil beneath his palm, chocolate ass bouncing like jello.

“All this body…I’d handle ya’ ass erryday.” Smoke talked slickly.

“How would you handle me, Papa?”

That papa drove him crazy.

“I’d bend ya’ over…stick my tongue in ya’ pucker and ya’ cat…make ya’ suck my dick outta my sleep…after a hard day,” Smoke whacked her on the butt, “Then I’d make nasty, messy, love to ya’ baby…all over this fuckin’ house…”

Smoke picked Pearline up and placed her on the bed. She crawled away from him and he followed like a predator to his prey, nibbling on her flesh with his teeth, licking the soles of her feet. She got on all fours and dipped her back like a feline. Smoke put his face in it, suffocating himself on purpose. Pearline moved her hips, riding his face.

“Smoke…” she moaned, “Just like that…eat Stack’s pussy…”

“This ain’t his no more…”

Pearline whimpered.

“It’s yours?”

“All mines, baby. All this twangy pussy…”

“Shiiittttt…”

Smoke resurfaced, growling. He put his face in it again and growled some more. Pearline arched her back and cried out when Smoke jabbed her entrance with a pointed tongue.

“I can’t see you…I need to see how you doin’ that, Papa…”

Smoke couldn’t agree more. He flipped Pearline over and she opened up so wide her hips ached.

“Can’t get no wider than that, baby…so eager…”

“Feast on me, Papa…let me watch…” Pearline begged.

Jagged, labored, and sharp breaths escaped her mouth. Smoke’s handsome face and those juicy lips munched on Pearline’s pussy with gluttony, exactly what she wanted to see from her position on her back. His eyes are low like he was high off of her tangy taste and his lips and tongue moved in sync with each other. Pearline tightened her vaginal muscles around his fingers that were seated deep in her pussy and just like that, she leaked on his tongue. As long as his tongue, lips, and fingers stay on her she’ll give him what he wanted.

“Your pussy is so pretty and tight, baby…” Smoke takes two fingers to gently stroke her cum covered inner lips with an enthralling and spellbinding expression on his face, bottom lip all pouty, and golds on display, “I’ll take care of ya’ Pearlie…anything ya’ need…ya’ pussy ate up…fucked real good…spoiled…loved on the proper way…I’m there…”

Pearline held her legs up like Smoke instructed. She begged for him to eat her pussy. Smoke wanted to taste that twat, taste the mixture of salty sweetness. The way Pearline moved like a feline on stage, captivating the audience, hips gyrating and ass moving in a slow motion, smoke wanted to dig his tongue in it and sample it. He wanted her to do all that on his tongue and his dick.

“I think these inches about right for ya’, huh?” His onyx eyes flicker up to gaze at her. The way his irises looked, she can feel his eagerness to fuck the shit out of her instantaneously. No words needed, just his eyes doing the talking. Pearline nodded her head slowly before chewing on her bottom lip. 

“Smoke,” Pearline started pushing her pussy against his tongue, humping as Smoke wiggled it and sucked away, “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck!”

Her musk crowded his nose and grew stronger the more she creamed.

“That’s right…feed me this good pussy…”

“As tasty as you are…mmm,” Smoke showed her just how delicious she is, “Don’t you worry, Pearlie, I’ll give you what you deserve…”

“I…I–I deserve it…” Pearline struggled to form words between moans.

She stilled her hips so he could suck her up. Pearline gasped, hands shaking and unsure if she wanted to grab his head or the sheets.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh—”

Smoke’s rattling breaths fanned her pussy. He licked his lips and stared at the beautiful flower before his eyes with an intoxicating gaze. He covered her inner thighs with soft kisses, listening to her calm breaths. He stared up the valley of her glistening body.

“I need you on top, Pearlie…”

Smoke gets up to sit on the end of the bed, helping Pearline climb on top of him. His large hand is on the back of her head, pushing her face towards his so he could make her taste his lips. Smoke smirked as he kissed her, slipping his skillful tongue into her mouth so she could taste that sweet pussy all over his taste buds. All you could hear was the slurping of lips and heavy breathing.

Pearline fumbled with his pants, his lips fighting to keep kissing her and each time she pulled on the fabric his fat dick would jump and brush against her pussy lips. Finally, skin-to-skin contact. Smoke’s muscular thighs, heavy balls, and that thick dick. Pearline didn’t even wait, as soon as his pants were pushed past his dick she squatted over him while his toned hips pushes his dick up to meet her.

“Elijah…” Pearline grabbed onto his shoulders.

All she can feel is solid, throbbing, long girth entering her from beneath. Her inner lips all the way to her clit pulsates with need. Smoke continued to pump her pussy at a slow pace with his hand reaching up to grip her throat. Pearline’s eyes are focused between her legs and she watched with awe at the seductive motion of his hips burying his dick deeper and deeper...his abdominal muscles crunched and the more noise her pussy made, Smoke’s thrust deepened.

She was staring back and forth from his dick to his face with a delusional expression—still in disbelief about how much dick this man possesses. Identical to his brother. Pearline is still in shock that she was fucking her brother–in–law. She let out a gasp and her head goes back so far Smoke had to cradle it. The closer Smoke pulls her body towards him, her erect nipples brush his lips. He opens his mouth wide, his long, thick tongue showing both stiff peaks some attention before gently sucking it.

He had her slim waist in a firm position as he rocked her up and down his dick. It was a sensual dance.

“Why you fuckin’ me like you love me?” Pearline whispered.

“Cause I do love ya’…”

“We shouldn’t be doing this…” Pearline whined.

It was too late for that.

“I’m ‘bout to tear that ass up,” Smoke warned her with a forceful, guttural voice. He picked Pearline up by her waist and turned her around, “Spread your fucking thighs...c’mon, baby, open that pussy up I need that shit so bad...yessss...got this pussy driving me crazy, Pearlie...this wet ass pussy...make love to this pussy all fucking day, baby…”

“Oh, my goodness!”

"Pussy getting wetter with papa’s fat dick up in it?” 

Pearline moaned in response. This was the most vocal Smoke had ever been. He couldn’t wait to have her.

"Pearlie…fuck…" Smoke moaned, "darling...I swear to God,...do you know how I’d kill to be up in this? Huh? Make you mines...I’m stroking it…all this wet pussy wrapped around my fucking dick...alla ‘dis ass? dassit baby...fuck on daddy like that…”

Pearline couldn’t help herself as she leaned over, ass high while she rode Smoke’s dick in reverse cowgirl. She looked back at him, curls in her face and heart racing from the workout she was giving her pussy. She could feel Smoke’s fingers graze her ass cheeks before they were on lower lips. Pearline’s peach fuzz tickled his thumbs as he spread heropen so that he could watch the way his dick pushed past her swollen vulva, producing more cream. 

“Damn, Pearlie…it’s like ya’ pussy been wanting this dick…you’re so wet…”

“Unh, yes—”

“Ohhh, you work it like that, huh? That’s how you riding this daddy dick?” Smoke groaned and it made your clit twitch. 

“You makin’ this dick hella sloppy,” Smoke said and she heard the obstacle in his voice to hold his nut off. Pearline was working the tip of his dick now, all that beautiful dark skin and the muscles in her back mesmerizing him.

“Elijah…” Pearline moans, but it’s so low with how loud her pussy is.

Smoke was in a trance watching her ass bounce and clap against his crotch each time she came down on his dick. The cotton candy pink center in contrast with her deep brown skin made him salivate.

“Ooh—”

“Papa hittin’ that spot? Yeah? Here, lemme hit it for ya’ some more.. ooh, baby, ya’ takin' it…there ya’ go…hmmmm, pussy is yankin’ me...here some more dick for, ya’…”

Pearline looked back and saw the intensity in his eyes and then she could feel his dick in her stomach. Her face felt tight and hot and the heat from Smoke’s body had her shimmery skin sweating. Pearline felt tears pricking her eyes and her mouth fell open, drooling with lust. This shit was too good. 

“Ima cum on this dick, Papa!”

“Gon’ head that’s what the fuck I want,” Smoke said menacingly, “Where the fuck is it?!”

“Ohhhhhhh, Shit—”

“Bounce on that dick…just like that…bring that ass down on me, girl...ahhhh, fuck…you do it so nasty on this wood, girl...so fucking nasty. Been wanting me to fuck ya’ tail up…you like fucking the other twin, baby?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Pearline’s ass flopped down in Smoke’s lap, her walls like a tight capsule squashing his dick for dear life.

“Fuck, Pearlie…”

Smoke stood with his dick still buried inside of her and turned her around with her back arched, knees on the bed, and feet hanging over the edge. His eyes swept over her body as he spread her cheeks apart. Pearline glanced back, eyes lowering between his legs. Thick. Veins pulsing. She reached behind to spread her creamy folds for him. Their eyes met and he purposely sank into her agonizingly slow. 

“I love the way you moan when I push all this daddy dick deep inside of you…” Smoke pulled out, doing it again, “Like ya’ singing the blues to me…”

“It makes my pussy feel so full, Papa...I love the way you fuck me...it feels so good, baby, don’t stop stroking me…”

“You love knowing you fuckin’ Smoke, huh?”

Pearline’s warm, wet, tight pussy gripped his dick and when she reached back to grab for his balls, she couldn’t believe how heavy they were. If he keeps going at a slow pace like this, making her pussy cream and sound like this, Smoke gon’ erupt and make a large mess all in his sister–in–law’s pussy.

His hands were slapping her ass around to let her know she made his dick feel good with the loving he was giving her. It was deep and his words were nasty but his strokes were patient and savoring—like he wanted to stay in her married pussy as long as he could and make her moan as much as her voice box can produce. 

His thick dick is slow and torturous sliding in and out her, pussy lips snug around the head of his dick every time he enters her. Smoke would slide all the way in, her pussy making all kinds of noises, then he would pull all the way out. Pearline knew why he was doing this—sliding in and pulling out. He loved the way his wide tip pushed past her walls. He loved the warmth and her juices making his dick all sticky.

He was taking his time, learning the hole his brother fucked, the pussy his little brother neglected. Smoke could only imagine slippery and sticky Pearline could make his dick. She was creaming and oozing out with each stroke and it’s all over his dick and balls.

“You like it messy, yeah?” Pearline asked with a gasp in between. 

“Arch that fuckin’ back.” That was his response. 

“Like this, Papa?” She whispered as she pointed that plump ass further in the air, shaking it a little for him, “I want you to hit the bottom of this wet pussy...hold it there and feel me squeeze that dick…”

“Pearlie…”

“You like it messy, make your pussy cum—”

Smoke grunted.

“This shit mines? I thought you said we ain’t suppose to be doin’ this here?”

Pearline whimpered when he pushed deep enough for her to feel pressure. He was playing with her. She loved it.

“We ain’t…it’s wrong…”

Smoke hooked his hand around the front of her neck and he peered down at her with a mug on his face.

“I shouldn’t be fuckin’ my pussy? Thought ya’ wanted this dick?”

Smoke gave her two forceful strokes as a reminder. Pearline’s eyes crossed. He did it again, watching her face contort in the vanity mirror across from them.

“Talk to me, baby. Want it?”

“Yes, yes, please, give it to me…”

His punishing strokes hit Pearline out of nowhere, knocking the wind out of her chest and tearing her guts up. 

She continued her shit-talking while her ass clapped back on him, “Yes, Elijah, fuck this pussy, take it, I’m a cum all over that dick...fat dick making me cum right now...oh my God…that big dick making me cum right now…uhhhhhhhhhhh…”

She was cut off from Smoke’s hand on the back of her neck, pushing her face down into the mattress. 

“This fuckin’ pussy...I’ll get ya’ knocked up, baby. I swear I will.”

Her lips parted and she started drooling on the bed. 

“I know you feel these nuts banging that clit...that’s what I’m talkin ‘bout.”

“SMOKE!”

“Yeah? Yeah, baby?” Smoke teased. 

He was beating her walls out.

“Don't you ever think you ain’t special...look at all this…you ain't playing with no lil’ boy…you know what a beast can do to ya’ sexy ass…”

Smoke was reminding her that this is what she’ll be getting tonight, the next morning, the day after that…

Smoke pulled out and rubbed her clit back and forth with his dick, and all she could remember before seeing stars was pushing out a fountain from her pussy—wetting up the sheets, the hardwood, and Smoke. He kept going, his dick rubbing her swollen clit back and forth. 

“This pussy is too fat and juicy...wet pussy dripping...making a fucking mess on this dick...keep it up and I’m sucking on ya’ pussy again.” 

“Please…I wanna feel your lips again, Papa.”

Smoke groaned.

He got down behind Pearline and ate to his hearts desire. She reached around and grabbed his head. Smoke massaged her ass while french kissing her pussy from the back. Loud, smacking of the lips.

“You think you can steal this pussy from your brother every night?” Pearline dirty talked.

Smoke’s tongue worked harder. When he was finished, Pearline turned over onto her back, thighs spread and knees to her chest with her fingers pushing her puffy folds back to show him where he needed to nut. 

“Clean Big Papa dick off first,” Smoke is knelt on the bed near her face. All she can see hovering above her is the underside of his dick and his balls. Pearline extended her neck, mouth wide and tongue flicking before grabbing him by the balls. Mouth engulfing him, Smoke swipes two fingers over his tongue before bringing them to her clit while she sucked.

“Get that motherfucker nice and wet too, baby…”

Her lips pop off his dick, “Drain that dick in me, Papa.” 

“Shit, get ya’ pregnant? Pearlie don’t say sum shit that’ll get ya’ in trouble…let my dick go.”

Pearline’s lips left Smoke’s tip. She looked up at him with glossy eyes.

“I wanna cum like this,” Pearline spread her thighs so far that her feet touched the bed on either side of her. Smoke walked around and between her legs, his erection in hand, jerking downward to open his slit and show her his tasty pre-cum. 

“Damn...my dick...shit so stiff I could bust from the sight of ya’ pretty ass,” Smoke was back inside of her, “ima always have ya’...ya’ love me, girl?”

The gruff tone mixed with his words has her breath uneven and her heartbeat a little faster.

“...Wha?” Pearline was astounded. He was still sexing her missionary, her body moving back and forth against the bed in time with his strokes. 

“I said...do ya’ love me?” His jaw clenched tightly and his eyes were serious. 

“...Yesss…” Pearline turns her head away because now she can’t look at him as her tears begin to cloud her vision. Smoke wasn’t having that. He grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him. His brows are furrowed and his lips are parted.

“I love ya’. I love you and I ain’t letting ya’ go...I want ya’ to remember that and take every fucking word I’m saying seriously, Pearlie.”

Smoke’s lip had curled up and his eyes were so intense that she could literally feel them burning into hers.

“Do ya’ understand me, girl? I fucking love you...”

Pearline weeped. Smoke’s tongue found its way to her nipples and he starts sucking each one softly. His patience. It didn’t matter how long it took for him to finally have her, he made that his mission. Her happiness means the world to him. She had moments of insecurity but his reassurance makes her realize it doesn’t matter. He dreams of all the ways he can take care of her, how he would treat her better and love her better. She’d wake up happy knowing she was properly taken care of. She’d feel more at home with him than she ever felt with Stack. And she believed him.

Smoke buries his face against her neck and with his hands wrapped around her shoulders to keep her still and his hips pistoning in and out, Pearline can feel him pushing all the love that he could deep inside of her.

She locked her ankles around him and shut her eyes tight to stop her tears. He was licking, sucking, and biting all over her neck. Pearline continuously gasps in his ear with each deep thrust of his. Her hand is on his firm ass and she start forcing his hips down even more.

“Dig fucking deeper,” She whispers to him. 

“Dayum...dayum,” He groaned in her ear, “Pearlie…I wanna cum inside of ya’!”

“Yes!”

“I’m about to bust this shit wide open—”

Her mouth went wide with ecstasy and Smoke’s hand was on the back of her head to watch her face while he forced himself deep inside, stopping at the precise moment he heard her try to utter a sound before doing it all over again and making her eyes roll. Smoke kissed and nibbled along her jaw. Her pussy didn’t make no sense to him.

Pearline felt the same about his dick. He was really stretching her out and the way his biceps trembled she knew he was about to cum heavy and hard. Pearline widened her legs for him some more. Smoke brought her ankles up to rest on his shoulders and he lifted to his hands, dropping dick off in her.

“It’s right here for you...cum in your pussy, Papa...this your pussy,...this your pussy, Papa...this your pussy—”

“Take my cum...take all my cum up in this pussy...ahhh...shit...I got more for ya’...that’s it...goddamn this pussy won’t let me go...keep cumming—”

Pearline could feel the sensation of his cum filling her pussy up and that’s when her own orgasm extended from the bottom of her pussy all the way up to the surface and made her spasm beneath him. It was fucking, but with so much affection for each other. Smoke eases out of her and even with him not there she still felt stretched out and aching. Smoke is on his back next to her, his dick still rigid. Pearline turns to the side, one leg coming up to rest on top of his while her feet rubbed against his inner thigh. She looked up to see Smoke staring at her—just studying her face.

“I love you.”

Pearline’s shyness took over. The intensity in his eyes. She knew he meant it.

“You really love me?” Pearline asks with a shaky and sweet voice.

“Real shit, baby...real shit.”

She beamed and hid her face. Smoke chuckled.

“I can’t believe we just had sex.”

“We made love, Pearlie.” Smoke corrected.

The harsh reality of what just happened loomed over her.

“…What does this mean?” Pearline asked with a small voice.

“It means whatever ya’ want it to mean…but just know, I can make ya’ happy, Pearlie. Let me love ya’.”

Pearline sits up.

“Smoke…if Stack finds out—”

“So what?”

“You came in me! What if I get pregnant? We ain’t had sex in months! He would know!”

“Pearlie…”

Smoke stilled her. Pearline locked eyes with him. Smoke tried to find the words to say.

“What is it, Smoke?”

He was crestfallen.

“Pearlie…Stack…Stack been seeing Mary more…cause he thinking of how to get her away from Arkansas without her husband finding out she pregnant.”

Pearline cocked her head back. A fresh wave of tears swam in her eyes.

“W-what? What you sayin’? She pregnant with his baby? Smoke? No…no, no, no, no—”

Smoke wrapped his arms around Pearline.

“You knew all this time?!—”

“She just found out. She came to tell him. Pearlie…”

Smoke lifted her into his lap. He allowed her to cry, stroking her back and kissing her hair. She cried for a while, shaking against him. Smoke stared down at her, his thumb caressing her cheek.

“Pearlie?”

“…I should have killed him.”

Pearline sat up in Smoke’s lap. She had this far away look in her eyes.

“Stack a grown man. I can’t keep blaming you for his faults, Smoke. You’ve done enough to protect him and look after him. He never knew how to watch his own back without you being there…”

Smoke dropped his eyes. Pearline finally looked at him. She tilted his chin up, her eyes flicking from his face to his chest.

“Why didn’t you steal me from him? Why did you let him take me away from you?” Pearline contested with a knot in her throat.

“…why did ya’ have to fall in love wit’ him instead of me?” Smoke brazens.

Pearline held his gaze, even as tears streamed from her eyes.

“It should have been you.”

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